THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


EARLY    POEMS 


BY 


MOODY    CURRIER. 


MANCHESTER,  N.  H. : 

PUBLISHED     BY     JOHN      B.     CLARKE, 

1881. 


PUBLISHER'S    NOTICE. 


This  volume  is  a  reprint  of  one  published  last  year  by  its 
author  for  private  circulation  among  his  personal  friends.  The 
poems  it  contains  were  written  by  him  as  a  recreation  during 
his  leisure  hours,  and  were  first  published  without  any  purpose 
of  making  them  public  property  ;  but  since  that  time  there  has 
come  to  us  an  urgent  and  somewhat  extensive  demand  for  cop 
ies  from  the  general  public,  which  has  induced  us  to  urge  upon 
Mr.  Currier  the  propriety  of  permitting  us  to  publish,  on  our 
own  account,  a  new  edition  for  general  circulation.  To  this  he 
has  consented,  and  we  now  offer  the  work  to  the  public. 

JOHN   B.   CLARKE. 

MANCHESTER,  N.  H.,  May,  1881. 


PS 

GAll 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

STANZAS 5 

THE  ROSEMARY 7 

CAMILLA'S  STAR 9 

THE  PAST 11 

A  REMEMBERED  FRIEND 15 

THE  COQUETTE 17 

FROM  THE  GERMAN 21 

BUNKER  HILL 23 

STANZAS 27 

A  PASTORAL 29 

THE  ADIEU 32 

LONELY  MUSINGS 34 

TELL  HIM  I'LL  WAKE  AGAIN 36 

THE  DAY  OF  BATTLE 38 

NATURE  A  PROOF  OF  GOD'S  EXISTENCE         ...  42 

WRITTEN  ON  ONE  OF  THE  WESTERN  MOUNDS   .        .  44 

THE  MIND  UNCHANGEABLE 47 

MIND  FEEDS  ON  THOUGHT 49 

THE  INDIAN 52 

SCENES  FROM  A  DREAM 54 

O'ER  EGYPT'S  PLAINS 58 

WHY  PLUCK  THE  FLOWERS? 60 

THE  WANDERER 62 

THE  MIND  is  ETERNAL 68 

A  VISIT  TO  WASHINGTON 70 

HYMN  FOR  THE  NEW  YEAR 73 

THERE  is  A  WREATH 75 

DREAMING  77 


.1005905 


iv  CONTENTS. 

WHAT  I'VE  SEEN 79 

THE  PROGRESS  OF  SOCIETY 81 

To  DELIA 86 

WE  SEE  NO  HOSTILE  BLADE 88 

MlGNON 91 

THE  WANDERER'S  LOT 93 

NEW  YEAR'S  ADDRESS 96 

GREECE 105 

THE  MOUNTAIN  SHEPHERD'S  SONG          ....  107 

SPRING 109 

HOPE.  — To  MARY Ill 

THE  GRAVEYARD 113 

AN  IMITATION  OF  MIGNON 116 

IF  I  WERE  A  CHILD 119 

THE  MOUNTAIN  SHEPHERD 122 

AN  EVENING  SKETCH 125 

THE  GHOST  STUDENT 131 

THEY  CALL  ME  INFIDEL 137 

MAN  AND  WOMAN 141 

NOT  GLORY'S  PLUME 146 

LINES  WRITTEN  IN  A  YOUNG  LADY'S  ALBUM  AT  SCHOOL  148 

ON  RECOVERING  FROM  SICKNESS          ....  150 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  YOUNG  LADY       ....  152 

THE  ONE  WHO  is  FAR  AWAY 154 

A  DREAM 156 

WRITTEN  IN  AN  ALBUM 158 

ADAM  LAYS  THE  BLAME  ON  EVE 160 

ALL  THINGS  CHANGE 162 

REMEMBERED  JOYS 164 

THE  ORPHANS 165 

THE  POET'S  FAME 168 

OVER  THE  RIVER 170 

OCTOBER 172 

MORN 174 

WHERE  WAS  GOD? 175 

THE  INDIANS  .                         179 


STANZAS. 

A    HEBREW    MELODY. 

Soft  winds  still  blow  o'er  Jordan's  stream, 

And  curl  its  restless  flood, 
As  when  along  its  banks  of  green 

The  sons  of  Judah  trod. 

The  stars  look  down  as  fair  and  bright, 
On  hill  and  plain  and  stream, 

As  when  the  Prophet  watched  at  night 
Their  silver  shining  beam. 


6  STANZAS. 

On  Carmel's  distant  waving  fields 
Still  creeps  the  clustering  vine  ; 

And  still  the  rose  of  Sharon  yields 
Its  fragrant  sweets  divine. 

Though  winds  are  soft  and  stars  are  bright, 

O'er  distant  fields  and  flood, 
As  when  the  beams  of  sacred  light 

Shone  round  the  Ark  of  God  ; 

No  more  is  heard  the  Levite's  song, 
No  more  the  Prophet's  dream ; 

No  more  the  choral  virgin  throng 
On  Zion's  hill  is  seen. 

The  Hebrew  maids  in  Gentile  lands 

Now  seek  an  exile's  home  ; 
And  where  their  fathers'  grave-stones  stand, 

The  sons  of  Hagar  roam. 


THE    ROSEMARY.* 

There  is  a  flower  that  never  dies ; 

Its  beauties  ever  bloom ; 
Among  the  dead  its  petals  rise, 

And  cling  around  the  tomb. 

When  winter's  storms  are  cold  and  drear, 

And  fierce  the  tempests  rave, 
Its  brightest  flowerets  then  appear, 

And  smile  upon  the  grave. 

*  The  rosemary  is  said  to  bloom  in  winter,  and  is  planted  around 
graves  and  tombs  by  mourning  friends,  as  an  emblem  of  that  love  and 
friendship  which  lives  even  in  death. 


THE  ROSEMARY. 

Come,  sweetest  flower,  a  wreath  I'll  twine, 

To  friendship's  sacred  name ; 
A  brighter,  holier  branch  than  thine, 

Not  friendship's  self  can  claim. 

Like  youthful  love,  thy  summer  bower 

A  living  fragrance  brings ; 
Like  friendship's  tear,  thy  wintry  flower 

'Mid  cheerless  tempests  springs. 

"  Come,  fun'ral  flower,"  I'll  plant  thy  root 

Beneath  the  cypress  shade ; 
And  let  thy  lowly  blossoms  shoot 

Where  man's  last  home  is  made. 

And  when,  sweet  flower,  that  home  is  mine, 

A  living  perfume  shed  ; 
And  kindly  o'er  the  lonely  shrine 

Thy  softest  tendrils  spread. 


CAMILLA'S  STAR. 

• 

Say,  bright  twinkling  orb  of  light, 
Trembling  on  the  verge  of  night, 
As  you  pass  your  earthly  round, 
If  on  earth  a  name  you've  found, 
Dearer  than  the  one  you  bear, 
Dearer  than  Camilla's  star  ? 

Though  you  shine  with  clearer  light, 
Fairest  of  the  train  of  night, 
Though  are  lost  beneath  your  blaze 
Many  a  feebler  planet's  rays, — 


10  CAMILLA'S   STAR. 

Brighter  honors  you  may  claim, 
Whilst  you  wear  Camilla's  name. 

When  at  summer's  eve  you  rise, 
Chasing  darkness  from  the  skies, 
Then  I'll  watch  thee,  and  regret 
When  thy  circling  course  is  set ; 
Set  or  rise,  I'll  sing  thy  fame, 
Whilst  thou  bear'st  Camilla's  name. 

Now  perhaps  she  looks  on  thee, 
Without  a  thought  or  care  for  me ; 
Forming,  as  thy  courses  move, 
Dearer  objects  for  her  love ; 
Objects  who  will  ne'er  declare 
Love  for  thee,  Camilla's  star. 


THE  PAST. 

Hope  may  shine  with  beamy  light, 
Down  the  vale  of  fancied  fears, 
And  gild  the  curtained  folds  of  night 

That  hang  o'er  future  years, — 
But  Doubt  intrudes  with  ruffian  hand, 
And  tears  away  our  fairy-land  : 
And  Reason  sees  but  forms  of  air 
Float  swift  o'er  scenes  of  coming  care. 

Joy  is  ne'er  a  present  boon, 
Placed  within  our  mortal  grasp, 


12  THE  PAST. 

But  lies  amidst  the  future's  gloom, 

Or  lingers  in  the  past. 
Our  restless  passions  never  rest ; 
A  thousand  thoughts  distract  the  breast; 
And  all  we  feel  or  love  below 
Alternate  ebb,  alternate  flow. 

Scenes  of  former  days  are  bright; 

Time  dispels  the  shades  of  woe ; 
There  only  pleasures  live  in  light, 

And  loveliest  prospects  glow. 
On  mem'ry's  page  life's  rugged  scenes 
Like  phantoms  flit :  their  trembling  beams 
Have  lost  their  hostile  guise  ;  they  move 
Amidst  the  lingering  forms  we  love. 

Days  of  youth !  I  see  them  rise. 
Smiling  in  the  distant  past ;  — 


THE  PAST.  13 

The  cloudless  morn,  the  rainbow  skies, 

In  deathless  beauty  last. 
In  fields  I  loved,  I  see  but  flowers  ; 
No  thorns  I  find  among  the  bowers ; 
An  angel's  hand  hath  sure  been  there, 
And  nothing  left  but  bright  and  fair. 

Foes,  that  snatched  with  hostile  hands 

Hope's  soft  cheering  gifts  away, 
Transformed,  like  fabled  fairy  bands, 

Now  stand  in  bright  array ;  — 
And  now  are  hid  in  flowery  crowns 
The  angry  look,  the  threat'ning  frowns, 
Whilst  every  form,  with  beauty's  bloom, 
Now  smiles  amidst  the  distant  gloom. 

Love,  that  springs  in  infant  breasts, 
Pure  as  Eden's  purest  flame, 


14  THE  PAST. 

Behind  the  curtains  of  the  past, 

Seems  still  a  nymph  of  heavenly  name. 
The  artless  lip,  the  rosy  cheek, 
In  kindly  accents  seem  to  speak, 
As  oft  the  muse  with  kindling  haste 
And  "  wing  of  fire  "  explores  the  past. 


A   REMEMBERED    FRIEND. 

"  I  will  leave  off  as  I  begun."  —  D.  WEBSTER. 

They  say  she  is  wrinkled  and  old, 

That  the  tint  of  the  rose-bud  is  gone ; 
That  her  smile  is  unmeaning  and  cold. 

And  her  countenance  sad  and  forlorn ;  — 
But  still  to  my  fancy  she  seems 

Like  a  beautiful  blossom  of  spring ; 
And,  amid  the  delusion  of  dreams, 

Her  smiles  to  my  memory  cling. 


16  A   REMEMBERED  FRIEND. 

Her  step  seems  as  light  to  my  view, 

As  when  in  her  childhood  she  moved  ; 
And  the  blush  on  her  cheek  is  as  new 

And  as  fresh  as  the  one  that  I  loved;  — 
But  they  say  she  is  wrinkled  and  old, 

That  the  tint  of  the  rose-bud  is  gone ; 
That  her  smile  is  unmeaning  and  cold, 

And  her  countenance  sad  and  forlorn. 


THE  COQUETTE. 

A  SONG. 

I  saw  a«  flower,  —  'twas  bright  and  fair, 
And  beauteous  as  the  morn  ; 

Its  petals  fluttered  in  the  air 
That  played  around  its  form. 

Though  many  a  flower  around  it  grew, 

As  envious  of  its  charms, 
And  decked  with  blossoms  ever  new, 

Upreared  their  varied  forms, — 


18  THE   COQUETTE. 

Yet  none  was  found  so  bright  and  fair, 

Of  all  the  flowery  race; 
Nor  could  their  gaudy  tints  compare 

With  simple,  artless  grace. 

The  rose-bud  blushed  beneath  the  gaze 

Of  every  ravished  eye, 
And  smiled  to  hear  the  lavish  praise 

Of  every  passer-by. 

The  zephyr  stole  the  balmy  sweet, 
That  floated  round  its  head  ; 

Whilst  from  the  sunbeam's  ardent  heat, 
Its  dewy  honors  fled. 

The  insect  drank  the  nectar  tear, 
That  trembled  in  the  morn ; 

And  oft,  in  wanton  riot  here. 
Despoiled  its  varied  form. 


THE   COQUETTE.  19 

Thus  ev'ry  hand  was  stretched  to  claim 

This  lovely  vernal  gem  ; 
Till,  torn  and  pale,  it  soon  became 

A  withered,  wilted  stem. 

But  many  a  flower  around  it  grew, 

Unnoticed  and  forlorn, 
Whose  brightest  blossoms  still  were  new, 

When  all  its  own  were  gone. 

And  on  the  rose-bud's  rifled  charms, 

Not  e'en  a  look  was  cast  ; 
But  lone  and  drear,  its  faded  form 

Was  pelted  by  the  blast. 


is  thus  I've  seen  a  blooming  fair, 
By  all  around  caressed  ; 
A  thousand  proffered  hearts  were  there, 
And  hope  in  ev'ry  breast. 


20  THE   COQUETTE. 

There  now  remains  a  cheerless  one, 
Of  hope  and  joy  bereft; 

A  heaving  sigh,  a  smothered  groan, 
Oft  swell  the  stricken  breast. 

While  many  a  homely  cheek  retains 
Its  smile  and  flush  of  youth, 

Nor  feels  the  bitter  pangs  and  pains 
Of  oft-neglected  truth. 


FROM   THE   GERMAN. 

Close  beside  a  rocky  summit, 
Where  a  stilly  brooklet  flows, 

'Neath  a  darkly  spreading  willow, 
Be  my  place  of  last  repose  ; 

In  that  vale  of  coolest  shade, 

Let  this  aching  heart  be  laid. 

Hath  thy  bosom's  idol  shunned  thee, 
Once  so  beautiful  and  fair, 

Though  thy  tears  of  bitter  anguish 
Marked  thy  wasting,  deep  despair, 


22  FROM   THE    GERMAN. 

Seek  an  end  for  all  thy  woes, 
Where  that  stilly  brooklet  flows. 

All  my  hopes  of  joy  are  vanished ; 

All  my  prayers  are  turned  to  scorn  ; 
Close  beside  that  rocky  summit, 

Let  this  wasted  form  be  borne, — 
In  that  vale,  I'll  seek  repose, 
Where  that  stillv  brooklet  flows. 


BUNKER   HILL. 

A   DREAM. 

On  Bunker's  height  methought  I  stood, 
And  gazed  o'er  hill  and  plain: 

Its  brow  was  wet  with  patriot  blood ; 
Its  sides  were  heaped  with  slain. 

Before  me  rise,  in  dread  array, 

A  spectred  warrior  band ; 
In  thickening  files  they  crowd  the  way ; 

In  shadowy  squadrons  stand. 


24  BUNKER   HILL. 

Nor  cap  nor  plume  their  heads  adorn, 
No  soldier's  coat  they  wear ; 

The  garb  of  peace  hangs  round  their  form, 
And  freedom's  shield  they  bear. 

As  when  they  left  the  half-ploughed  field, 
And  weeping  child  and  wife, 

For  freemen's  rights  their  arms  to  wield, 
And  freely  gave  their  life, — 

So  still  they  move,  a  fearless  band, 
Where  once  they  bravely  fought, 

And,  joyful  still,  watch  o'er  the  land 
Their  toil  and  blood  have  bought. 

Here  Warren  stands,  whose  patriot  arm 
Was  raised  for  human  right, 

As  when  he  drove  the  hireling  swarm 
From  Bunker's  bloody  height. 


BUNKER   HILL.  25 

There  Putnam  rides  through  hurrying  files, 

As  when  he  pressed  the  foe, 
And  swift  the  flying  bands  assailed, 

Nor  spared  the  dreadful  blow. 

"Ye  shades  of  mighty  men!"  I  said, 
"Who  guard  this  hallowed  shrine, 

Wherein  the  bones  and  dust  are  laid 
Of  men  almost  divine, 

"  Here  heroes  fell,  here  patriots  bled ; 

This  spot  is  holy  ground, 
'  The  sepulchre  of  mighty  dead,' 

With  stainless  glory  crowned. 

"  Oh,  watch  the  noblest,  holiest  dust 

That  sleeps  on  'glory's  bed;' 
Ye  leave  this  soil,  a  sacred  trust, 

The  spot  whereon  ye  bled." 


26  BUNKER   HILL. 

Then  rank  and  column  swiftly  passed, 

As  light  as  lightest  air ; 
Nor  cannon's  roar,  nor  musket's  flash, 

Nor  drum  nor  shout  was  there. 


STANZAS. 

"I  would  not  wear  the  fairest  flower" 

That  e'er  in  Eden  grew, 
Although  'twere  plucked  from  angel's  bower 

And  wet  with  heavenly  dew, 
If  e'er  't  had  shed  its  virgin  bloom 

Around  another's  brow, 
And  yielded  once  its  rich  perfume, 

To  passing  friend  or  foe. 

I  would  not  wed  the  fairest  maid 
That  e'er  on  earth  was  born, 


28  STANZAS. 

Although  she  wore  Madonna's  head 
And  Venus'  matchless  form. 

If  e'er  she'd  yielded  once  her  heart 
To  other  love  than  mine, 

And,  'midst  a  thoughtless,  wanton  sport, 
Had  quenched  the  flame  divine. 


A  PASTORAL. 

TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  HALLER. 

The  twinkling  star  descends  at  eve 
In  trembling  beams  of  light, 

And  from  the  mountain's  purple  brow 
Dispels  the  gloom  of  night. 

The  moon  displays  her  silver  horns 

In  lightly  shaded   gleams, 
And  o'er  the  golden  harvest  sheds 

Her  soft  and  tender  beams. 


30  A    PASTORAL. 

And  Night  her  sleepy  odors  spreads, 

Her  wat'ry  pearls  distills ; 
She  kindly  slakes  the  thirsty  earth, 

And  feeds  the  fainting  rills. 

Come,  Doris,  let  us  wander  out 
Beneath  the  beechen  shade, 

And  follow  many  a  winding  path 
Along  the  grassy  glade. 

The  zephyr  breathes  in  amorous  gales, 

Along  the  distant  grove, 
And  softly  gives  the  tender  leaves 

A  sweet  caress  of  love. 

See  now,  my  Doris,  yonder  see 
Yon  bending  willow's  gloom, 

Whose  roots  the  murmuring  waters  lave, 
Whose  boughs  look  dark  at  noon. 


A    PASTORAL.  31 

And  there,  the  leafy  boughs  among, 

We'll  watch  the  turtle-doves ; 
We'll  listen  to  their  sweetest  songs, 

And  learn  their  tender  loves. 

And  thus  we'll  nurse  the  growing  thoughts, 

Remote  from  noise  and  strife ; 
Whilst  ev'ry  rural  scene  around 

Shall  lend  its  sweets  to  life. 


THE  ADIEU. 

Lady  mine,  I  need  not  tell  you 

What  the  tears  of  anguish  spoke, 
When  my  fainting  eyes  beheld  you, 

As  they  gave  the  parting  look. 
In  my  bosom  then  were  swelling 

Feelings  such  as  none  can  tell, 
As,  with  tongue  and  heart  unwilling, 

Falt'ring  sighed  I,  "  Fare  thee  well." 

Not  my  native  land  forsaking, 
Where  my  infant  lot  was  cast, 


THE    ADIEU.  33 

Where  a  thousand  scenes  awaken 

Thoughts  of  friends  and  pleasures  past]; 

Not  to  green  and  sunny  bowers, 
Where  my  childish  moments  flew; 

Not  to  pleasures,  scenes,  or  flowers, 
Weeping,  sighed  I  that  adieu. 

No,  't  was  not  companions  leaving ; 

No,  't  was  not  the  sweets  of  home ; 
Which  was  in  my  bosom  heaving, — 

'Twas  the  thoughts  of  thee  alone. 
Could  I  leave  thee,  vainly  striving 

To  conceal  what  sighs  might  tell  ? 
Not  without  the  keenest  anguish, 

Could  I  utter,  "Fare  thee  well." 


LONELY   MUSINGS. 

I  love  to  sit  on  the  rugged  cliff, 

Where  the  wild  briers,  clustering,  spring ; 
Where  naught  but  the  reptile  finds  its  home, 

And  the  eagle  spreads  its  wing. 
I  love  to  gaze  on  the  world  below, 
Where  the  forests  wave  and  the  waters  flow, 
Where  the  song  of  birds  and  the  voice  of  men 
Arise  from  the  field,  the  wood,  and  the  glen. 

I  love  to  sit  on  the  mountain  top, 
Where  the  sky  is  clear  and  bright, 


LONELY  MUSINGS.  35 

And  the  stars  pour  down  from  their  distant  orbs 

Their  silvery  beams  of  light. 
I  love  to  gaze  on  the  boundless  scene, 
And  nurse  in  my  mind  the  pleasing  dream, 
That  those  radiant  spheres  with  life  abound, 
And  joy  and  love  and  beauty  are  found. 

I  love  to  sit  in  the  lonely  vale, 

Where  the  shade  hangs  thick  and  dark  ; 
Where  the  catbird  builds  and  the  owlet  screams, 

And  the  whelps  of  the  wild  fox  bark. 
I  love  to  sit  in  a  lonely  spot, 

Where  the  mind  can  roam  in  the  world  of  thought  — 
Within  and  without  in  beauty  are  joined 
The  world  of  matter  and  the  world  of  mind. 


TELL  HIM   I'LL  WAKE  AGAIN." 


A  fair  young  female  had  just  closed  her  eyes  in  her  last  re 
pose.  For  many  hours  the  spirit  had  been  trembling  within 
the  expiring  frame,  like  the  blaze  of  a  spent  taper;  for  filial 
love,  longing  after  the  farewell  of  an  absent  father,  still  held  it 
by  strong  ties.  "  Should  you  sleep  when  your  father  arrives, 
what  shall  I  say  to  him?"  a  friend  inquired  significantly.  The 
dying  girl  unclosed  her  fading  eyes,  and  said  with  a  gentle 
smile,  "  Tell  him  I'll  wake  again."  She  slumbered,  and  woke 
no  more. 


Tell  him  I'll  wake  again  when  morn 
Sweet  beams  of  light  shall  spread, 

And  life's  immortal  day  shall  dawn 
Upon  the  sleeping  dead. 


TELL   HIM  I'LL    WAKE  AGAIN.  37 

Tell  him  I'll  wake  in  youthful  bloom, 

All  fresh  and  fair  and  bright ; 
No  fell  disease  nor  sorrow's  gloom 

My  rising  joys  shall  blight. 

Tell  him  this  dying  frame  of  mine 

Has  wasted  day  by  day, 
Till,  all  unstrung,  by  slow  decline, 

It  hastens  to  decay. 

Tell  him,  that  still  his  dying  child 

A  father's  love  retained ; 
Though  frail  and  weak,  yet  calm  and  mild, 

The  goal  of  life  she  gained. 

Tell  him  farewell,  Avhile  I  shall  sleep; 

The  morn  will  quickly  come, 
When  I  shall  wake  with  joy  to  meet 

Him  in  our  Father's  home. 


THE   DAY    OF   BATTLE. 

The  morning  star  in  beauty  shone 

Along  the  dusky  east ; 
Nor  yet  the  purple  light  of  dawn 

Had  broke  the  slumberer's  rest. 

I  gazed  on  woodland,  hill,  and  plain, 
And  all  was  peace  around  ; 

No  voice  of  bird,  no  matin  strain 
Of  music  yet  was  found. 


THE  DAY  OF   BATTLE.  39 

The  clear,  bright  arch  of  heaven  above 

Hung  o'er  the  silent  scene  ; 
Nor  scarce  a  twig  or  leaflet  moved, 

To  break  the  fairy  dream. 

How  sweet  to  me  does  nature  seem, 

When  thus  alone  we  meet, 
When  earth  is  calm,  and  heaven  serene, 

And  every  joy  complete. 

'T  was  sweet  to  muse,  't  was  sweet  to  feel, 
With  star  and  bush  and  flower ;  — 

When,  lo !  the  flash,  the  cannon's  peal 
Shook  hill  and  plain  and  shore. 

The  shout,  the  cry,  the  sword,  the  drum, 

Now  mix  with  horrid  din ; 
And  on  the  furious  squadrons  come, 

And  death  and  carnage  bring. 


40  THE  DAY  OF  BATTLE. 

Now  fire  and  smoke  and  death  and  groans 

At  every  step  abound ; 
And  blood  and  gore  and  shivered  bones 

Bestrew  the  smoking  ground. 

The  star  has  set  —  the  morning  sun 

Rose'  o'er  a  field  of  blood  ; 
The  hills  and  plains  are  black  and  dun, 

And  leafless  stands  the  wood. 

Now  all  is  still  around,  above, 

As  when  that  star  arose  ; 
There  is  no  voice  that  speaks  of  love  ; 

There's  none  that  tells  of  foes. 

But  marks  of  rage  on  every  side, 

And  marks  of  savage  man  ; 
The  signs  of  death  are  far  and  wide, 

And  blood-stained  is  the  land. 


THE  DAY  OF  BATTLE.  41 

The  leaf,  the  bud,  the  opening  flower, 

Lie  crushed  upon  the  sand ; 
But  coming  time,  with  genial  power, 

Will  clothe  anew  the  land. 

The  orphan's  tear  will  dry  again, 

And  cease  the  widow's  moans ; 
But  when  will  spring  or  summer's  voice 

Reclothe  these  bleaching  bones  ? 


NATURE   A    PROOF    OF    GOD'S 
EXISTENCE. 

'Tis  sweet  to  be  alone,  with  nature's  works 
Around ;  where  God  has  traced  in  clearer  lines, 
Than  ever  priest's  or  prophet's  page  contained, 
The  proofs  of  attributes  divine ;  where  earth 
And  heaven  outstretch  their  ample  page  for  man 
To  read.     The  humblest  floweret  of  the  vale, 
If  viewed  aright,  will  prove  to  skeptic  man 
What  never  pagan  rite,  or  papal  bull, 
Or  mystic  creed  has  proved,  that  God  exists 
In  wisdom,  power,  and  love  —  in  all  supreme. 


PROOF  OF   GOD'S   EXISTENCE.  43 

For  what,  but  wisdom  infinite,  could  form 

The  simple  leaf  with  varied  hue,  and  filled 

With  countless  tubes,  that  draw  from   earth's  dark 

clods 

A  shapeless  mass,  dissolved  and  purified, 
Till  matter,  brute  and  dead  revives,  and  springs 
To  life,  and  crowns  the  vale  with  flowers  and  sweet 
Perfumes  ?     Can  man  such  simple  work  perform  ? 
The  skillful  hand  may  form  a  mimic  rose, 
With  stem  and  leaf  o'erspread  with  colors  false, 
And  borrowed  odors  sweet.     But  let  him  bid 
The  organs  play,  its  leaves  unfold,  and  yield 
Him  incense,  fresh  and  sweet  at  morn  and  eve, 
As  nature  offers  up  to  God.     The  rash, 
Presumptuous  man  would  stand  abashed,  and  his 
Own  nothingness  confess,  compared  with  Him 
Whose  voice  from  nothing  called  to  life,  and  clothed 
With  beauty  all  that  lives. 


WRITTEN    ON    ONE    OF    THE 
WESTERN    MOUNDS. 


"  They,  who,  adventurous,  dare  to  tread 
'Mid  the  dark  dwellings  of  the  dead, 

Shall  learn  the  lessons  fate  has  taught." 


Amid  the  mounds  I  stand  ;  the  beech  and  oak 
Trees  wave  their  giant  arms,  branch  above  branch, 
Moss-clad  and  gray  with  age,  whilst  deep  beneath, 
Their  countless  roots  embrace  a  nation's  bones. 
But  who?  or  when?  'tis  secret  all,  unknown, 
And  locked  amidst  the  gloom  and  darkness  of 


WRITTEN  ON  A    WESTERN  MOUND.          45 

The  dusky  past.     The  grass  has  silently, 
With  flowers  and  leaves,  its  mantle  spread,  from  year 
To  year,  around  their  noiseless,  populous 
Abodes ;  the  babbling  stream,  whilst  nations,  tribes, 
And  languages  have  sprung  to  life,  enjoyed 
Their  day  and  died,  has  still,  with  ceaseless  run, 
Flowed  by  an  empire's  grave.     How  silent  all ! 
No  voice  is  here,  except  the  wild  bird's  scream, 
And  the  wolf's  howl,  to  tell  the  unwritten  tale. 
And  blank  is  history's  garbled  page,  —  not  e'en 
The  deeds  of  blood  and  man's  destroying  might 
Have    stained   the  spotless   scroll.     Naught   but  the 

grave 

Reveals  the  long-lost  race,  —  a  nobler  race 
Than  now  the  red  man  boasts,  —  a  race  perhaps, 
Who,  ere  the  savage  Greek  had  learned  to  spread 
The  tent  or  till  the  earth,  had  wooed  the  muse 
In  strains  as  sweet  as  ever  Homer  sung. 


46          WRITTEN  ON  A    WESTERN  MOUND. 

But  earth  itself  has  changed,  and  man's  frail  race, 
Like  autumn  leaves,  has  oft  been  swept  away 
By  tempest,  flood,  or  storm  ;  and  ocean's  bed, 
Amid  convulsions  dire,  upheaved,  aloft 
Its  tow'ring  peaks  has  reared  ;  and,  in  their  turn, 
The  mountain's  dizzy  height  and  outstretched  plain 
Deep  in  the  yawning  gulf  have  sunk,  and  o'er 
Their  tops  the  waves  of  ocean  roll.     Thus  man 
And  man's  proud  works  of  monumental  art, 
Of  sacred  fanes  and  sculptured  tombs,  at  one 
Fell  sweep,  are  swallowed  up  and  lost.     And  age 
On  age  rolls  by ;  perhaps,  not  long  before 
The  ebbing  tide  shall  seek  another  bed, 
And  leave  to  man  and  beast  a  desolate 
Abode.     And  then  the  curious  eye  will  trace 
Amid  the  upturned  hills  and  plains,  the  wreck 
Of  races  long  since  known  on  earth,  as  now 
We  view  the  mammoth's  giant  frame. 


THE    MIND    UNCHANGEABLE. 

"Forma  mentis  eterna."  —  TACITUS. 

The  fairest  blossom  of  the  spring, 

Though  beautiful  and  gay, 
The  golden  insect's  gilded  wing, 

Must  quickly  pass  away. 

The  star  of  beauty  shines  on  high, 
Whilst,  o'er  the  mountain's  height, 

It  climbs  the  dusky-bosomed  sky, 
Amidst  the  lamps  of  night. 


48  THE  MIND    UNCHANGEABLE. 

That  star  of  beauty  must  decay, — 
Its  course  will  soon  be  run  ; 

The  heavens  and  earth  will  pass  away, 
When  once  their  work  is  done. 

Thus  gilded  wing  and  fairest  flower 
And  star  must  all  decay; 

But  mind  on  heavenly  wing  will  soar 
To  an  immortal  day. 

Forever  there  in  spirit-land, 
Unchanged  by  lapse  of  time, 

'Twill  all  its  various  powers  expand, 
And  feed  on  truth  divine. 


MIND    FEEDS    ON    THOUGHT. 

What  though  the  breath  of  heaven  should  fail, 

Or  fetid  odors  taint  the  gale ; 

Though  earth  refuse  the  mantling  bower, 

And  mildews  blast  the  opening  flower; 

Though  nature's  robe  of  living  green 

No  longer  spread  o'er  hill  and  plain, 

But  fen  and  marsh  and  drifting  sand 

Spread  ruin  o'er  the  sea  and  land  ; 

Though  moon  and  star  and  daily  sun 


50  MIND  FEEDS    ON   THOUGHT. 

Xo  more  their  circling  orbits  run, 

And  darkness  spread  her  sable  wing 

O'er  man  and  every  living  thing ; 

And  every  outward  sense  grow  dumb, 

The  eye  be  dark,  and  mute  the  tongue, — 

Afar  within  itself  retired, 

The  mind  with  heavenly  vigor  fired, 

Could  form  anew  the  faded  scene, 

Blossom  and  herb  and  living  green  ; 

Could  bid  the  zephyr's  wing  unfold, 

And  deck  the  clouds  with  fluid  gold ; 

Could  people  space  with  star  and  sun, 

And  bid  the  fiery  comet  run  ; 

Could  soar  away  to  spirit-lands 

And  dwell  in  thought  with  angel  bauds  ; 

Or,  backward,  trace  the  track  of  man 

To  where  his  infant  race  began, 

And  there,  in  shrouds  of  darkness,  find 


MIND  FEEDS   ON   THOUGHT.  51 

The  primal  sparks  of  giant  mind, 
And  every  truth  in  nature  trace 
That  e'er  was  known  to  human  race. 
And  thus  within  itself  alone, 
Though  every  outward  sense  were  gone, 
The  mind  could  live  in  heavenly  light, 
Where  all  is  clear  and  fair  and  bright, 
As  when,  a  pure,  immortal  flame, 
From  God's  own  hand  at  first  it  came. 


THE  INDIAN. 

He  stood  on  the  hill  where  his  fathers  had  stood, 
And  gazed  on  the  plains,  the  fields,  and  the  wood ; 
But  the  smoke  of  the  wigwam  had  faded  in  air, 
And  the  shout  of  the  warrior  no  longer  was  there. 

The  forests  were  gone,  and  the  wild  deer  had  fled ; 
The   mounds  were    upturned   that   had   covered   the 

dead. 

The  stream  and  the  lake  still  rose  to  his  view, 
Where   the  sport  of   his  youth  was   the  light   bark 

canoe, — 


THE   INDIAN.  53 

But   the  track  of   the  white  man  was   seen  on  the 

shore ; 
In  the  field  was  his  plough,  in  the   stream  was  his 

oar; 
And  the  flocks  of   the   farmer  were  cropping   their 

food, 
Where    the    bark-covered    hut   of   the    warrior    had 

stood. 

Then,  the  last  of  the  red  men,  he  hastened  away 
From  the  graves  where  the  bones  of  his  forefathers 

lay, 

To  the  grass-covered  plains  of  the  far  distant  West, 
There  alone  in  the  desert  unhonored  to  rest. 


SCENES  FROM   A   DREAM. 

Sweetest  flowers  of  lovely  spring, 
Singing  birds  with  golden  wing, 

Bloom  and  warble  tuneful  lays 
Where  in  fancy's  fabled  bovvers, 
Where  in  hope's  aspiring  hours, 

Oft  my  soul  with  Delia  strays. 

By  the  streamlet's  gentle  flow, 
Where  the  cress  and  cowslip  grow, 

Where  the  zephyr  has  its  home, 
Where,  in  wild  fantastic  cell, 


SCENES   FROM  A    DREAM.  55 

Silver-footed  fairies  dwell, 
I  with  Delia  often  roam. 

Oft  to  view  the  craggy  stone, 
Mimic  Echo's  mossy  throne, 

Oft  to  find  the  fabled  grot, 
Where,  amid  the  gloom  of  night, 
Once  was  seen  the  witch's  light, 

I  with  Delia  vainly  sought. 

Oft  I've  asked  poetic  fire, 
Oft  the  lute  and  oft  the  lyre, 

Charming  earth  with  angel's  lay ; 
Dimly  burned  the  poet's  fire, 
Dumb  the  lute,  and  dumb  the  lyre, 

When  my  Delia's  far  away. 

Oft  to  view  in  dusky  night, 
Evening's  robe  of  starry  light, 


56  SCENES   FROM  A    DREAM. 

Where  the  mighty  planets  ride, 
Where  the  shooting  meteors  run, 
Where  the  wandering  comets  burn, 

Oft  I've  gone  by  Delia's  side. 

When  from  life  to  shades  of  woe, 
Pluto's  realm  of  night  below, 

I,  a  fancied  spright,  was  driven, — 
Then  these  dread  abodes  of  hell, 
Sinner's  hut  and  devil's  cell, 

Delia's  presence  turned  to  heaven. 

When  I  roved  through  heavenly  bowers, 
Crowned  with  wreaths  of  deathless  flowers, 

Sinless  as  the  joys  above  ; 
Lone  amidst  the  blest  abodes, 
Bowers  of  men  and  thrones  of  gods, 

Oft  I  mourned  for  Delia's  love. 


SCENES  FROM  A    DREAM.  57 

Oft  I've  strolled  through  Eden's  bowers, 
There  to  cull  the  bridal  flowers, 

Then  to  wreathe  them  round  her  head ; 
When  my  joy  had  reached  its  height, 
With  the  visions  of  the  night, 

Then  my  Delia's  image  fled. 


O'ER   EGYPT'S  PLAINS. 

O'er  Egypt's  plains  the  heavens  are  bright, 

As  when  the  Hebrews  came, 
And,  'mid  the  folds  of  pagan  night, 

Lit  up  a  heavenly  flame. 

And  still  the  banks  of  Nile,  the  same, 

Still  fanned  by  gentle  winds, 
As  when  old  Pharaoh's  daughter  came 

To  dip  her  snowy  limbs. 

Along  its  verdant  banks  of  green, 
The  wild  flag  rears  its  head, 


O'ER   EGYPTS   PLAINS.  59 

As  when  the  prophet's  ark  was  seen, 
Amidst  its  waters  laid. 

There  still  a  thousand  sculptured  cones, 

There  still  the  Meinnon  stands ; 
But  now  their  lofty  pillared  domes 

Protect  the  Arab  bands. 

But  where,  the  Egyptian  priest  and  lord  ? 

Where,  Pharaoh's  mighty  son  ? 
They  smote  the  Jew  —  were  cursed  by  God  — 

And  lo !  their  race  is  gone. 


WHY  PLUCK  THE  FLOWERS? 

Why  pluck  the  flowers  of  sweetest  blooin, 

And  spoil  their  opening  hues, 
Unless  to  taste  their  sweet  perfume, 

And  drink  their  nectar  dews  ? 

And  why  attempt,  with  impious  art, 

To  brand  a  fair  one's  name, 
And  often  leave  a  broken  heart 

To  weep  o'er  injured  fame  ? 


WHY  PLUCK   THE   FLOWERS?  61 

Stay,  vile  deceiver,  stay  thy  hand, 

Nor  blast  life's  opening  dawn ; 
Nor  wreck  young  hope  upon  the  strand 

Of  wretchedness  forlorn ! 

An  artful  look,  or  flattering  smile, 

May  pierce  the  tender  heart ; 
Deceitful  words  allure  with  guile, 

And  leave  a  deadly  smart. 

For  woman's  love  is  brittle  ware, 

And  broken  by  neglect ; 
And  broken  once,  there's  no  repair 

Can  heal  the  least  defect. 


y 


THE   WANDERER. 

The  dial's  shade  moves  round  and  round, 
And  transient  all  on  earth  is  found, 

And  all  is  doomed  to  change. 
The  mountains  waste,  the  rocks  decay, 
And  men  are  dying  every  day 

Within  this  ample  range. 

The  veil  of  Fate's  before  our  eyes, 
The  future's  hidden  from  the  wise, 


THE    WANDERER.  63 

Uncertain  what's  to  come. 
Yet,  we  may  view  the  fleeting  past, 
And  scan  our  course  from  first  to  last, 

And  think  of  what's  been  done. 

Thus,  as  the  banished  man  returns 

And  seeks  his  friends,  but  finds  their  urns, 

I  viewed  life's  early  morn  ; 
I  sought  the  pleasures  once  I  knew, 
And  tried  to  bring  again  to  view 

What  long  was  past  and  gone. 

Where,  now,  the  trifling,  rattling  toy, 
That  once  could  please  the  smiling  boy 

And  still  his  whining  cry  ? 
Where,  now,  the  borders  of  that  span, 
Where  once  he  thought  the  earth  began 

To  mingle  with  the  sky  ? 


64  THE    WANDERER. 

I  sought  the  joys  that  once  I  knew, 
I  thought  that  I'd  again  pursue 

And  taste  their  pleasures  o'er. 
I  sought  to  find  my  native  cot, 
Those  shattered  rooms  I'd  not  forgot, 

But  that  exists  no  more. 

Its  wretched  tenants,  now  forlorn, 
Had  left  it  to  the  pelting  storm, 

And  sought  a  foreign  clime ; 
Its  tottering  frame  stood  not  the  blast, 
But  tumbled  to  the  ground  at  last, 

A  mouldering  wreck  of  time. 

The  wild  weeds  grew  where  once  it  stood ; 
The  partridge  nursed  her  infant  brood 

Down  where  its  ruins  lay ; 
The  tree  that  stood  beside  the  door  — 


THE    WANDERER.  65 

An  autumn  storm  had  blown  it  o'er  — 

Was  mingling  with  the  clay. 

» 

The  little  brook,  whose  murmurings  stole 
With  raptures  o'er  my  infant  soul, 

Was  lost  in  wilds  of  grass ; 
I  traced  its  long  forsaken  stream, 
Without  the  solace  of  a  gleam 

Of  where  its  waters  passed. 

The  little  warblers  tuned  their  throats ; 
But  theirs  were  wild  and  plaintive  notes, — 

'T  was  not  my  robin's  song ; 
For  she  was  forced  from  hence  away 
To  shun  the  savage  birds  of  prey, 

In  wretchedness  to  mourn. 

I  thought  that  these  had  passed  away, 
As  doomed  by  nature  to  decay, 


66  THE    WANDERER. 

But  else  remained  the  same. 
I  asked  where  lived  my  little  mates, 
Who  once  with  me  did  smile  and  prate, 

And  called  them  all  by  name. 

A  haggard  form  was  standing  near ; 
He  pointed  to  a  broken  bier, 

And  answered  with  a  sigh  : 
"  Beneath  yon  grassy  ridge  of  ground 
The  sleeping  bones  of  one  are  found, 

Of  one  to  you  most  nigh. 

"  For  once  you  knew  her  graceful  form, 
But  ah,  alas !  the  vernal  storm 

Has  laid  her  in  the  tomb ; 
Her  smiling  lips  and  sparkling  eyes, 
And  mind  that  once  could  charm  the  wise, 

Are  lost  in  death's  dark  gloom. 


THE    WANDERER.  67 

"  Some,  wandering,  roam  in  foreign  lands, 
On  Arctic's  shores,  on  Afric's  sands. 

And  some  on  ocean's  wave ; 
Whilst  some  have  clothed  themselves  in  shame, 
And  others  reached  the  seats  of  fame, 

And  some  are  in  the  grave." 

I  passed  the  street,  —  they  knew  me  not, — 
My  boyish  look  they'd  long  forgot, 

And  passed  the  stranger  by. 
'Xe  youthful  scenes,  while  life  remains, 
Your  cloudless  joys  I'll  e'er  retain 

Unmingled  with  a  sigh. 


THE  MIND   IS  ETERNAL. 

"  Forma  mentis  eterna." —  TACITUS. 

Bowers  of  spring  and  groves  of  green, 
Poet's  home  and  fancy's  dream, 

Wither  in  the  scorching  ray ; 
Blush  of  youth  and  smile  of  joy 
Sorrow's  dart  may  soon  destroy ; 

But  the  mind  will  ne'er  decay. 

Flowers  that  bloom  and  birds  that  sing, 
Russet  leaf  and  golden  wing, 


THE  MIND  IS  ETERNAL.  69 

Quickly  blossom,  quickly  fly; 
Fashion's  shine  and  folly's  show 
Often  change  to  garbs  of  woe ; 

But  the  mind  will  never  die. 

Golden  ore  and  trump  of  fame, 
Stores  of  wealth  and  honored  name, — 

Useless  glitter,  empty  sound ; 
Miser's  hope  and  hero's  dream, 
Flitting  shadows  always  seem ; 

But  of  mind  no  end  is  found. 

Pleasure's  couch  and  Bacchus'  bowl, 
Bed  of  death  and  death  of  soul, 

Smile  to  win  and  win  to  slay. 
But  the  mind  will  ever  bloom, 
Brighter  yet  beyond  the  tomb, 

Endless  as  eternal  day. 


A   VISIT   TO   WASHINGTON. 

What  though  I  tread  with  wandering  feet 

Potomac's  winding  shore; 
What  though  I  sit  where  sages  meet 

And  con  their  wisdom  o'er:  — 
Yet  still  on  fancy's  wings  I  rise. 

In  sweet,  enchanting  dreams. 
To  view  my  own  New  England  skies, 

Her  mountains,  hills,  and  streams. 

What  though  Virginia's  mountains  gleam 
Along  the  western  sky, 


A    VISIT   TO    WASHINGTON.  71 

And  many  a  sacred  grove  is  seen, 
Where  Yernon  meets  the  eye ;  — 

Yet  dearer  far  my  native  fields, 
Where  once  I  loved  to  roam, 

Whose  dark-green  grassy  turf  conceals 
The  savage  warrior's  bones. 

What  though  in  sculptured  walls  still  lives 

The  hero's  deathless  name ; 
What  though  the  faithful  canvas  gives 

The  patriot's  deeds  to  fame ;  — 
Yet  while  I  tread  on  Bunker's  hill, 

And  view  the  blood-stained  fields, 
A  deeper  flame  my  bosom  fills 

Than  e'er  the  canvas  yields. 

What  though  in  marble-pillared  halls, 
Beneath  the  gilded  domes, 


72  A    VISIT   TO    WASHINGTON. 

I  see  the  gold-embroidered  walls, 
And  little  mimic  thrones;  — 

Oh,  dearer  far  than  seats  of  power, 
Or  gilded  wall  and  dome, 

The  grassy  mound,  the  spreading  bower, 
Around  my  cottage  home! 

What  though  the  city  belle  may  shine 

In  beauty's  gayest  hue, 
With  rubies  glittering  from  the  mine, 

With  garments  ever  new ;  — 
The  feeling  heart,  the  gentler  grace, 

The  heavenly  modesty, 
The  winning  smile  of  Delia's  face, 

Are  dearer  far  to  me. 


HYMN   FOR   THE   NEW   YEAR. 

How  the  silver  spheres  are  rolling, 

Counting  out  life's  transient  span! 
Who,  their  constant  course  beholding, 

Cannot  tell,  how  frail  is  man  ? 
Sun  and  moon,  their  course  fulfilling, 

Tell  the  passing  hour  is  gone ; 
Each  the  solemn  truth  revealing, — 

Soon  their  circling  course  is  done ! 

See,  as  time  is  onward  moving, 
Truth  and  Freedom  spring  to  light ; 


74  HYMN  FOR    THE   NEW   YEAR. 

Man,  his  social  state  improving, 
From  the  tyrant  claims  his  right. 

See  the  light  of  reason  shining 
O'er  delusion's  misty  way ; 

Pure  religion  undefiling, 

Brightening  into  perfect  day. 

Every  season  yields  its  blessing, 

Every  year  its  bounty  brings ; 
Man,  alone  these  joys  possessing, 

Heeds  not  whence  this  goodness  springs. 
While  in  retrospect  reviewing 

What  has  marked  our  short  career, 
Still  in  virtue's  path  pursuing, 

Let  us  hail  the  coming  year. 


THERE   IS  A    WREATH. 

'T  is  not  of  gold,  nor  yet  of  fame ; 

'T  is  not  entwined  with  beauty's  name ; 
For  gold  grows  dim,  and  beauty  fades, 

And  fame  is  lost  'midst  gathering  shades. 

This  wreath  grows  not  in  pleasure's  bowers, 
Nor  yet  is  formed  of  fading  flowers ; 

Its  deathless  leaflets  ever  bloom, 

And  shed  their  fragrance  o'er  the  tomb. 


76  THERE    IS  A     WREATH. 

'Tis  virtue's  prize,  of  heavenly  worth, 
Whose  petals  open  here  on  earth, 

But  still  in  endless  bloom  will  rise 
Amid  the  bowers  of  Paradise. 


DREAMING. 

If  we  could  avoid  the  painful  and  often  heart-rending  scenes 
which  present  themselves  in  the  wild  visions  of  sleep,  and  re 
tain  only  those  of  joy  and  gladness,  what  an  elysium  of  happi 
ness  there  would  be  for  the  dreamer  !  No  sooner  would  he  close 
his  eyes  upon  the  toils  and  cares  of  the  day,  than  he  would  find 
himself  amidst  the  splendid  creations  of  his  own  fancy,  where 
joys  were  multiplied  around  him,  and  beauty  was  interwoven 
with  every  object.  Reason  is  dethroned,  and  fancy  reigns  tri 
umphant.  We  are  no  longer  surprised  by  the  strange  and  mar 
velous;  time  and  space  are  annihilated;  the  events  of  years 
pass  in  as  many  moments ;  we  are  transported  from  place  to 
place,  without  noticing  the  transition.  The  storehouse  of  mem 
ory  is  thrown  open,  and  the  forgotten  events  of  a  whole  life  are 
ransacked  and  brought  forth  in  all  their  original  freshness  and 
vigor.  Out  of  these,  fancy  creates  a  thousand  fantastic  com 
binations,  often  ludicrous  and  absurd ;  but  delusion  assumes  the 
garb  of  reality,  and  the  visions  of  fancy  charm  and  delight  us. 
Our  days  of  childhood  return ;  we  again  enjoy  the  sports  that 
have  long  since  been  forgotten.  Our  companions  are  with  us ; 
the  joy  of  youth  is  upon  their  countenance ;  time  has  written 
no  wrinkle  upon  their  brows ;  death  has  not  thinned  their 
ranks,  nor  sickness  wasted  their  forms.  They  are  all  present. 


78  DREAMING. 

Though  many  of  them  have  long  since  mingled  with  the  clods 
of  the  valley,  the  dreamer  heeds  it  not ;  he  has  gone  back  to 
live  again  amidst  the  former  scenes  of  life,  and  the  present 
passes  before  his  eyes  like  the  shadowy  images  of  prophetic 
vision.  He  tastes  again  the  sweets  of  youthful  love  and  affec 
tion,  with  the  same  ardor  and  transports  as  he  did  in  the  fire  and 
artlessness  of  youth .  He  clasps  the  fairy  form  which  he  once 
adored;  she  is  still  clothed  with  youth  and  beauty.  Awaken 
ing  from  such  a  rapturous  vision  of  early  life,  he  exclaims  :  — 

She  lives  in  beauty  fresh  and  fail- 
As  spring's  most  glorious  morn  ; 

No  length  of  years  can  e'er  impair 
Her  fancy-pictured  form. 

Her  voice  is  still  as  soft  and  sweet 

As  childhood's  accents  flow; 
And  artless  joys  upon  her  cheek. 

In  smiles  of  gladness  glow. 

With  her  I  rove  'mid  youthful  scenes,. 

And  life's  sweet  morn  renew ; 
I  heed  it  not,  that  only  dreams 

Are  present  to  my  ,view. 


WHAT   I'VE   SEEN. 

I've  seen  the  cradle  and  the  grave, 
Have  seen  the  coward  and  the  brave, 

On  one  low  level  lie. 
I've  seen  the  glittering  wreath  of  fame ; 
Have  seen  it  shrouded  o'er  with  shame, 

And  tinged  with  crimson  dye. 

I've  seen  the  prince  of  royal  blood, 
Have  seen  the  beggar  asking  food, 
By  the  same  prince  denied ; 


80  WHAT  I'VE    SEEN. 

Again  I've  seen  them  in  the  tomb, 
Wrapped  in  the  self-same  silent  gloom, 
There  lying  side  by  side. 

I've  seen  the  rich  with  heaps  of  gold, 
Have  seen  the  slave  for  money  sold. 

And  fettered  with  a  chain ; 
I've  seen  the  slave  man  raised  to  wealth ; 
Have  seen  the  rich  one  cold  in  death, 

'Mid  heaps  of  rebels  slain. 

I've  seen  the  rose  and  lily,  torn 
And  beaten  by  the  pelting  storm, 

Lie  withered  in  their  bloom ; 
I've  seen  the  fairest  form  on  earth, 
Upon  the  solemn  sable  hearse, 

Slow  moving  to  the  tomb. 


THE   PROGRESS   OF    SOCIETY. 

A   FRAGMENT. 

My  theme  is  man,  't  is  mortal  man  I  sing ; 
How  first  o'er  brutal  instinct  placed ;  how  rude 
And  wild  the  reasoning  savage  groped  his  way 
Through  dark  and  devious  paths,  ere  long  before 
The  star  of  knowledge  rose  to  break  the  dawn 
Of  Wisdom's  glorious  day ;  how  science  led 
The  way  to  art,  and  knowledge  taught  the  soul, 
With   outstretched    wing   and   ceaseless   flight   t'  ex 
plore 
The  mighty  orb  of  nature's  varied  works. 


82  THE   PROGRESS   OF   SOCIETY. 

Thou  heavenly  muse,  who  erst  didst  guide 

The  patriarch's  pen,  deep  visioned  in  the  past, 

To  trace  the  birth  and  rise  of  things,  when  first 

Creative  power  from  naught  to  being  called 

This  mighty  globe  and  all  its  sister  orbs 

That  shine  on  high,  inspire  me  now  with  light 

Divine  to  trace  in  man  the  kindling  spark 

Of  intellect,  that  greatest,  holiest  gift 

Of  God,  implanted  deep  in  man,  t'  adorn 

And  finish  still,  what  God  of  all  his  works 

Alone  imperfect  left,  the  human  mind. 

For  thou  canst  tell  how  all  the  mighty  powers 

And  restless  energies,  concealed  and  veiled  in  flesh, 

Were  wed  to  Adam's  dust,  and  mortal  with 

Immortal  natures  joined  ;  how  spirit  clad 

In  robes  of  earth  can  act  through  organs  so 

Obtuse,  or  else  by  its  own  power  can  purge 

The  grosser  part,  till  matter  spirit  seems. 


THE   PROGRESS   OF  SOCIETY.  83 

Say  first  of  our  great  parent  sire,  when  at 
Creation's  morn,  unstained  by  sin,  he  first 
In  Eden's  bowers  sweet  converse  held  with  God, 
Or  walked  with  angel  bands  to  pluck  the  flowers 
And    breathe    the   fragrant   gales,   that   played    o'er 

hill 

And  vale  ;  or  else  with  Eve,  sweet  partner  of 
His  sweetest  joys,  retired  beneath  the  shade 
Of  overhanging  vines,  he  passed  away 
His  happy  hours.     What  powers,  what  intellect, 
What  stretch  of  thought  were  his  ?     Had  knowledge 

dawned 

And  with  bright  orient  beam  illumed  his  soul  ? 
Was  sacred  truth  revealed,  and  nature's  course 
With  all  her  wonder-working  laws  to  him 
Apparent  made  ?     Nit  so  ;  for  scarcely,  then, 
Had  human  powers  to  brutal  instinct  soared. 
For  God,  at  first,  to  all  the  countless  tribes 


84  THE  PROGRESS   OF   SOCIETY. 

Which  people  earth  and  air  and  sea,  had  given 
That  sure,  unerring  guide,  a  sense  unknown 
Or  feebly  felt  in  man,  but  to  all  else 
In  measure  full  and  perfect  given.     On  man 
Was  mind  bestowed,  not  full,  not  perfect  made 
At  first,  but  feeble,  as  the  tender  plant 
Whose  future  form  is  yet  concealed  within 
The  parent  bud,  which  showers  and  genial  rains 
Must  nourish  into  life.     So  mind  was  left, 
Imperfect,  undeveloped,  and  untaught, 
And  man  enjoined  to  rear  and  fashion  it 
With  constant  toil  and  sacred  truth,  until 
Its  latent  powers  break  forth,  its  energies 
Unfold,  and  every  art  and  knowledge  too 
Be  comprehended  in  its  grasp.     So  our 
Great  sire,  in  intellect,  was  as  the  child 
That  prattles  round  the  parent  knee  and  seeks 
For  knowledge  as  for  food  from  those  who  gave 


THE   PROGRESS   OF   SOCIETY.  85 

It  birth.     With  him  began  that  mighty  stream 
Of  wisdom's  treasured  lore,  which  age  on  age 
Has  swelled  until  it  flows  o'er  earth,  as  o'er 
Its  bed  the  ocean  sweeps  with  restless  wave. 


TO    DELIA. 

Though  thine  eyes  as  brilliants  sparkle, 
Though  thy  lips  with  rubies  vie, 
'T  is  not  lips  that  vie  with  rubies, 
Nor  the  lustre  of  thine  eye  : 
No,  '  tis  not  that  sweet  complexion, 
Blushing  brighter  than  the  rose, 
Nor  thy  gently  heaving  bosom. 
Whiter  than  descending  snows ; 
'T  is  not  all  those  witching  graces, 
That  around  thee  ever  play, 


TO  DELIA.  87 

Nor  thy  voice  so  sweetly  warbling 
Many  a  soft  and  pensive  lay; 
Charms  all  these,  far,  far  surpassing, 
Prompt  the  soft  and  secret  sigh, 
Wake  the  soul  to  love  and  honor, — 
Truth  and  Sensibility. 


WE  SEE  NO   HOSTILE  BLADE. 

Written  for  a  celebration  of  the  payment  of  the  last  dollar  of 
the  national  debt  during  the  administration  of  Gen.  Jackson. 

We  see  no  hostile  blade, 

No  crimsoned  banner  o'er  us  ; 
We  sit  in  Freedom's  shade, 
Her  altar  stands  before  us. 

For  all  our  rights 

Old  Hick'ry  fights, 
Our  Constitution  still  sustaining ; 

Our  deeds  of  fame, 

Our  honored  name, 
With  constant  care  maintaining. 


WE   SEE  NO   HOSTILE   BLADE.  89 

When  Britain's  hostile  fleet 

Hung  threat'ning  on  our  border  ; 
When  traitorous  bands  did  meet 
To  spread  around  disorder ; 
He  clasped  the  shield, 
And,  in  the  field, 
Their  ranks  he  rent  asunder ; 
With  brother's  care, 
He  saved  the  Fair, 
And  trod  the  blood-hounds  under. 

He  quits  the  tented  fields, 

Forgets  the  roaring  cannon, 
And  reason's  weapons  wields 
Against  the  king  of  Mammon.* 
With  mighty  hand, 
He  saved  the  land, 

*  The  old  U.  S.  Bank. 


90  WE   SEE   NO   HOSTILE   BLADE. 

And  from  her  chains  unbound  her ; 

Sweet  peace  he  shed, 

And  plenty  spread, 
And  blessings  strewed  around  her. 

Our  nation's  free,  is  free ! 
No  foeman  to  invade  her ; 
Our  land's  at  liberty 
From  debts  that  would  degrade  her. 

And  every  chain 

We'll  break  in  twain. 
Whilst  Jackson  holds  his  station. 

So  then  we'll  see 

A  people  free, 
A  free  and  happy  nation. 


MIGNON. 

FROM   THE    GERMAN   OF    GOETHE. 

Knowest  thou  the  land  where  the  citrons  bloom ; 
The  gold  orange  shines  in  its  leaf}7  gloom, 
And  softer  the  breeze  from  the  blue  heaven  blows, 
The  myrtle  still  and  the  high  laurel  grows. — 
Knowest  thou  it  well?     Oh,  there!     Oh,  there! 
Might  I  with  thee,  my  true  love,  repair. 

Knowest  thou  the  house,  with  its  pillared  domes, 

Its  glittering  halls  and  its  gilded  rooms  ? 

The  marble  forms  there  seem  to  say, 

"  What  ails  thee,  poor  child  ? "  as  they  look  on  me. 


92  MIGNON. 

Knowest  thou  it  well  ?     Oh,  there  !     Oh,  there  ! 
Might  I  with  thee,  my  protector,  repair. 

Knowest  thou  the  Alps,  in  their  misty  shroud  ? 
The  mule  seeks  his  path  through  the  midst  of   the 

cloud ; 

In  the  caverns  the  old  dragon  nourishes  her  brood; 
The  rocks  tumble  down,  and  o'er  them  the  flood. 
Knowest  thou  it  well  ?     Oh,  there,  with  thee, 
Where  leads  the  way,  0  father,  let  us  flee ! 


THE   WANDERER'S    LOT 

The  wanderer's  life  I  envy  not, 
Nor  wish  to  share  his  changing  lot ; 
His  toilsome  path,  his  glory,  fame, 
To  me  are  but  an  empty  name. 
From  country,  friends,  and  sacred  home, 
Oh,  who  would  ever  wish  to  roam  V 
What  though  he  cross  the  briny  deep. 
Or  climb  the  mountain's  rugged  steep, 
And  stand  on  Andes'  peerless  height 
Amid  the  cloudless  fields  of  light ; 


94  THE    WANDERER'S  LOT. 

Or  else  from  Atlas'  summit  trace 
The  swarthy  tribes  of  Afric's  race  ; 
Or  madly  urged,  with  daring  soul, 
O'er  Baffin's  ice  to  seek  the  pole  ? 
What  though  he  muse  in  classic  lands 
Where  many  a  ruined  temple  stands, 
Where  many  a  sculptured  form  divine 
Still  mocks  the  wasting  hand  of  time, 
And  still  in  beauty  greets  the  eye 
Of  every  careless  passer-by  ? 
What  though  on  Zion's  holy  hill 
Amid  the  pilgrim  bands  he  kneel, 
Where  once  the  Hebrew  prophets  stood 
Around  the  sacred  ark  of  God  ? 
What  though  the  banks  of  Nile  he  tread 
And  seek  through  desert  sands  its  head  ? 
What  though  his  devious  steps  pursue, 
From  land  to  land,  a  something  new, 


THE    WANDERER'S  LOT.  95 

Till  all  his  sands  of  life  have  run ; 
Till,  worn  and  weary  and  alone, 
Amid  some  trackless  desert's  gloom 
He  find  at  last  a  nameless  tomb? 
No  father's  hand,  no  mother's  care, 
No  weeping  wife  or  child  is  there 
To  calm  his  aching  brows  to  rest, 
And  soothe  the  anguish  of  his  breast ; 
But  savage  woods  and  savage  lands, 
And  savage  beasts  and  savage  men, 
Are  what  his  devious  steps  have  sought, 
Are  all  the  wealth  his  life  has  bought. 


NEW    YEAR'S   ADDRESS. 

The  enameled  robe  of  leaf  and  bud  and  flower, 
Which  spreads  o'er  hill  and  dale  and  vernal  bower, 
When  spring,  with  breezy  breath  and  balmy  beam, 
Sheds  life  and  joy  on  mountain,  plain,  and  stream ; 
The  darker,  richer  hues  of  summer's  shroud, 
Her  matin  song  of  birds,  her  evening  cloud; 
The  russet  leaf  of  autumn's  golden  day, 
That  marks  the  hast'ning  footsteps  of  decay, — 
Alike  have  marked  the  seasons'  circling  round, 
And  told  another  year  its  final  bound. 


NEW    YEAR'S   ADDRESS.  97 

'T  is  thus  we  note  mysterious  time's  career, 
From  change  to  change,  and  measure  out  the  year  ; 
While  through  the  vistas  of  departed  day, 
Age  rolls  o'er  age,  in  long  and  dread  array. 

But  if  time's  lengthened  years  we  view, 

And  trace  man's  upward  course  anew ; 

How  first,  with  brutes,  in  tree  and  den, 

Contented  dwelt  the  savage  man ; 

And  how,  when  infant  art  had  taught 

To  rear  himself  a  cheerless  cot, 

Far  worse  than  beasts  that  roam  the  wood, 

He  dipped  his  hands  in  brother's  blood, 

And  then  himself  became  a  god; 

How  superstition  held  confined 

That  heavenly  spark,  the  human  mind, 

And  bade  it  trace  its  wondrous  birth 

To  gods,  the  reptiles  of  the  earth  ; 


98  NEW   YEAR'S  ADDRESS. 

How,  when  the  star  of  promise  rose, 

With  life  bright-beaming  in  its  ray, 

And  to  our  darkened  race  disclosed 

The  dawn  of 'an  eternal  day; 

Ho.w  superstition  reared  its  head, 

And  round  the  soul  its  darkness  spread ; 

While  priest  and  monk  and  nun  unite 

To  quench  the  dawning  beams  of  light ; 

Retracing  thus,  'tis  wise  to  see 

How  man,  how  mind,  how  thought,  is  free,  — 

How  free  from  foes,  whose  direful  aim 

Was  still  to  load  us  with  their  chain. 

Who  taught  the  infant  arts  to  man  ? 

Who  led  him  from  his  savage  den  ? 

Who  bade  his  feeble  powers  expand, 

His  mind  to  guide  the  skillful  hand 

To  rear  aloft  the  sculptured  piles, 

Whilst  Nature  from  the  canvas  smiles  ? 


NEW   YEAR'S  ADDRESS.  99 

• 

Who  winged  with  mighty  power  the  soul, 

To  tread  the  heavens  from  pole  to  pole, 

To  trace  the  comet's  devious  way, 

Through  realms  of  night  —  through  realms  of  day, 

And  then  survey,  in  space  unknown, 

The  dazzling  suburbs  of  His  throne? 

Who  hung  these  orbs  of  glittering  light 

Along  the  curtained  folds  of  night? 

Again  we  ask,  who  taught  the  mind, 

Its  fetters  burst,  and  unconfined, 

From  abject  ignorance  to  rise. 

And.  winged  with  science,  tread  the  skie*  : 

This  mortal  form  to  consecrate 

To  civil  life,  and  moral  state  ? 

'T  was  godlike  Reason,  all  proclaim, 

That  living  spark  of  heuvoiily  flame, 

God's  greatest  gift ;  on  man  bestowed 

To  mark  him  chief,  creation's  lord  : 


100  NEW    YEAR'S  ADDRESS. 

And  by  its  feeble,  glimmering  ray, 
To  give  a  foretaste-  of  that  day 
When  knowledge,  all  unveiled  and  free, 
Through  the  bright  portals  of  eternity, 
Shall  pour  upon  the  mind. 

Who  then  shall  say,  with  impious  word, 
That  Reason's  voice  shall  not  be  heard, 
But  some  mysterious  influence  given 
Shall  guide  our  upward  path  to  heaven  ? 
Though  dark  such  mystic  power  may  seem, 
Yet  darker  still  will  be  the  dream, 
When  once  we  wake  to  Reason's  light, 
And  backward  view  the  illusive  night 
Of  lengthened  shadows  as  they  roll, 
Which  craft  has  spread  around  the  soul. 

Come,  sacred  Reason,  heavenly  ray, 
Come,  mighty  Truth,  and  guide  my  way. 


NEW   YEAR'S  ADDRESS.  101 

I  ask  no  art,  no  mystic  creed  of  man, 

That's  formed  by  few  —  and  fewer  understand. 

A  perfect  form  of  perfect  life  we  have, 

The  spotless  model  that  the  SAVIOR  gave ; 

A  life  like  his,  of  good,  of  love  to  man, 

Far  more  avails  than  popish  dogmas  can. 

And  who  by  such  a  rule  his  life  shall  lead, 

Will  all  the  forms  of  mystic  faith  exceed ; 

Nor  rests  his  claim  to  heaven  on  rites  alone, 

The  life  he  leads  conducts  him  safely  home. 

No  pious  hates  within  his  bosom  roll, 

But  truth  and  justice  stand  around  his  soul. 

His  every  act  proclaims  his  heavenly  birth, 

And  speaks  "good-will  to  man  and  peace  on  earth" 

Next  Knowledge,  reason's  richest  fruit, 
Exalts  the  man  above  the  brute ; 
Exalts  the  soul,  its  powers  unbinds, 
And  yields  its  treasures  to  our  minds. 


102  NEW    YEAR'S   ADDRESS. 

It  frees  from  superstition's  sway, 
Where  specters  stand  in  long  array ; 
Where  witch,  and  ghost,  and  fairy  bands 
Still  live,  the  gift  of  pagan  hands ; 
Where  miracles  are  falsely  claimed, 
And  inspiration's  gifts  profaned. 
When  Knowledge  ponrs  its  sacred  light, 
In  haste  these  phantoms  take  their  flight, 
And  leave  the  mind,  in  Nature's  laws, 
For  all  effects  to  find  a  cause. 

As  Knowledge  beams  upon  our  age, 
The  skeptic's  doubts,  the  bigot's  rage, 
Like  stingless  serpents  turn  and  flee, — 
For  Error's  weak,  where  Reason's  free  ! 
But  oft  beneath  the  bigot's  frown, 
Has  Reason's  sacred  voice  been  drowned  ; 
And  Knowledge,  Science,  all 
Enclosed  within  the  cloistered  wall. 


NEW  YEAR'S  ADDRESS.  103 

Yet  Reason  triumphs  o'er  their  rage ; 
And  Knowledge  beams  upon  our  age. 
Religion  free,  from  dogmas  free, 
From  creeds  and  crowns  and  Holy  See, 
As  Heaven  directs,  by  Reason's  light, 
Herself  will  purge  from  pagan  rite. 
Religion  pure,  of  holy  birth, 
Was  formed  for  man,  for  man  on  earth; 
His  duty  to  his  fellow,  kindly  given, 
To  form  on  earth  a  race  for  heaven. 
And  yet  in  these  enlightened  days 
Are  found  those  pious  Pharisees 
Who  teach,  religion  not  in  deeds 
Consists,  but  more  in  mystic  creeds, 
Where  blind  belief  is  all  in  all. 

Year  steals  on  year  with  noiseless  feet ; 
Their  endless  course  the  seasons  keep ; 


104  NEW  YEAR'S  ADDRESS. 

To  some  with  joys  they  overflow  ; 
To  some  they  bring  a  load  of  woe ; 
To  some,  the  bridal's  joyful  boon  ; 
To  some,  the  darkness  of  the  tomb,  — 
And  all  who  now  behold  the  day 
Will,  in  their  turn,  be  swept  away. 
Then  while  we  greet  the  coming  year 
With  ardent  hope  and  festive  cheer; 
While  fancy  to  our  eager  sight 
Unfolds  the  scene,  as  fair  and  bright, 
'Tis  wise  for  us  to  turn,  indeed, 
And  in  the  past  the  future  read. 
But  while  we  live,  to  one  great  end, 
May  all  our  acts  and  efforts  tend, 
To  serve  our  God  by  serving  man  ; 
And  thus  promote  the  general  plan 
Of  Universal  Good. 
1835. 


GREECE. 

" '  T  is  Greece;  but  living  Greece  no  more."  —  BYRON. 

The  laurel  grows  on  Sparta's  plains 
With  boughs  as  fresh  and  green, 

As  when  among  her  warlike  trains 
Leonidas  was  seen. 

But  'neath  its  shade  the  cringing  slave 

Now  only  seeks  a  coward's  grave. 

The  olive  crowns  her  mountain  caves, 
Where  men  communed  with  gods ; 

His  flowery  banks  Eurotas  laves 
Where  Sparta's  daughters  trod. 


106  GREECE. 

Now  robbers  haunt  these  sacred  shades, 
And  Turks  enslave  the  Grecian  maids. 

O'er  Lacedaemon's  ruined  wall 
The  skies  are  soft  and  blue ; 

And  on  her  fields  there  nightly  falls 
A  sweet  and  heavenly  dew ; 

But  Ceres  finds  no  priesthood  *  there, 

Nor  heeds  the  Moslem's  faithless  prayer. 

The  hills,  the  fields,  and  rolling  streams, 
The  mountain's  waving  woods, 

So  fair,  so  bright,  so  sweet,  they  seem 
The  blest  abodes  of  gods ; 

But  where  the  godlike  Spartans  now, 

That  laid  the  Persian  millions  low ! 

*  Husbandmen. 
1834. 


THE    MOUNTAIN    SHEPHERD'S 
SONG. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  UHLAND. 

I  dwell  on  the  mountain  tops, 

And  gaze  on  the  towers  below ; 
Here  the  sun  first  shines  on  the  rocks ; 

Here  the  evening  sunbeams  glow. 

Here  the  streamlets  and  fountains  rise ; 

I  drink  them  fresh  from  their  source ; 
The  mist  dashes  up  to  the  skies, 

As  they  rush  o'er  the  rocks  in  their  course. 


108       THE  MOUNTAIN  SHEPHERD'S  SONG. 

The  cliff  is  the  home  of  my  youth ; 

In  its  wrath  the  storm  rages  round, 
It  howls  from  the  north  to  the  south, 

Its  fury  my  song  shall  outsound. 

The  thunders  roll  under  my  feet, 
As  I  stand  in  the  midst  of  the  sky  ; 

I  see  where  the  broad  flashes  meet, 
And  bid  them  pass  harmlessly  by. 

But  soon  as  the  war-trumpets  blow, 

And  fires  are  seen  from  afar, 
I  descend  to  the  valleys  below, 

To  sing  the  loud  death-song  of  war. 


SPRING. 

How  sweet  is  the  first  approach  of  spring, 

When  the  birds  and  flowers  return  ; 
When  the  lark  and  the  red-breast  sing, 
Or  fan  the  air  with  their  gilded  wing, 
And  the  wild  rose  opes  to  the  sun. 

How  sweet  is  the  morning  fresh  with  dew, 

While  the  zephyrs  play  around ; 
When  the  flowers  their  richest  fragrance  strew, 
When  the  air  is  soft  and  the  sky  is  blue, 

And  beauty  clothes  the  ground. 


110  SPRING. 

How  sweet,  how  short,  are  our  youthful  dreams, 

When  the  thoughts  are  light  and  gay ; 
When  the  cheek  is  bright  and  the  young  eye  beams, 
When  love  in  the  bosom  but  faintly  gleams, 
And  hope  is  as  bright  as  day. 

How  sweet  and  pure  are  the  thoughts  at  death, 

When  the  sins  are  all  forgiven ; 
When  we  breathe  with  joy  our  latest  breath, 
Nor  care  for  the  fleeting  things  of  earth, 

But  hasten  away  to  heaven. 


HOPE.-TO   MARY. 

WRITTEN   IN   AN   ALBUM. 

Mary,  the  night  may  look  black, 

With  clouds,  with  tempest  and  storm  ; 

But  hope  cheers  the  traveler's  track, 
With  the  speedy  approaches  of  morn. 

Mary,  the  shadows  of  woe 

May  threaten  to  burst  on  our  head  ; 
But  sweeter  the  transports  shall  flow, 

When  the  anguish  of  sorrow  is  fled. 


112  HOPE.  —  TO   MAR Y. 

Mary,  misfortune  may  spread, 

O'er  the  prospects  of  youth,  its  dark  shroud ; 
But  hope  in  its  brightness  will  shed 

Its  sweet  beams  of  joy  o'er  the  cloud. 

Mary,  th'  affections  of  youth, 

And  the  soft  smile  of  friendship  may  die ; 
But  hope,  like  the  fountains  of  truth, 

Flows  down  from  regions  on  high. 

Mary,  though  life,  like  a  flower, 
May  wither  and  fade  in  its  bloom  ; 

Hope  points  to  a  bright  sunny  bower, 

Through  shadows  that  hang  o'er  the  tomb. 


THE    GRAVEYARD. 

On  the  farther  side  of  a  rugged  hill, 
Is  a  piece  of  ground  with  dead  bones  filled  ; 
'T  is  enclosed  by  wall  of  small  grey  stones, 
As  a  burying  place  for  human  bones. 

The  beech  and  the  birch  trees'  spreading  shade 
Lies  cool  on  the  turf  where  the  graves  are  made  ; 
And  the  crippled  fern  rears  its  lowly  head, 
As  it  creeps  o'er  the  dust  of  the  sleeping  dead. 


114  THE   GRAVEYARD. 

The  sculptured  slab  or  the  humbler  stone 
Marks  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  narrow  home  ; 
And  the  name  of  the  sleeper  is  still  to  be  seen, 
Though  the  gathering  moss  on  its  face  looks  green. 

There  the  tall  grass  bends  o'er  the  broken  bier, 
Where  scarcely  the  signs  of  a  grave  appear ; 
But  the  marks  of  the  mourner's  frequent  step 
Still  show  where  the  true  one  has  often  wept. 

Here  the  infant,  snatched  from  its  mother's  breast, 
And  the  aged  man  and  matron  rest ; 
Here  the  laughing  child  and  the  hoary  head 
Together  meet  in  the  realms  of  the  dead. 

Here's  the  man  from  the  midst  of  active  life, 
With  his  sleeping  babes  and  a  lovely  wife  ; 
And  here  in  the  grave  was  lately  laid 
The  faded  form  of  a  blooming  maid. 


THE   GRAVEYARD.  H5 

But  'tis  said  that  the  mind  has  flown  away, 
Through  the  boundless  realms  of  space  to  stray ; 
That  it  wings  its  way  to  the  distant  spheres, 
And  lives  through  the  endless  flow  of  years. 

But  sure  'twill  return  again  to  earth, 
And  gaze  on  the  scenes  of  its  early  hirth ; 
'T  will  sigh  in  the  gale  as  it  passes  by, 
Or  smile  in  the  golden  tints  of  the  sky. 

Sure  it  will  stoop  to  the  flowery  glade, 
Where  its  early  footsteps  often  strayed ; 
Or  sit  by  the  side  of  the  bubbling  streams, 
And  joyfully  muse  o'er  its  youthful  dreams. 


AN    IMITATION    OF   MIGNON. 

Knowest    thou    the    land,    where    the    wild    savage 

dwells  ? 
There   the   war-song   is   sung,  and   the   red  warrior 

yells ; 

There  the  hut  of  the  chieftain  is  painted  with  blood, 
And  the  maiden  flies  swift  in  her  boat  o'er  the  flood. 
Knowest  thou  the  land?  Oh,  there!  Oh,  there! 
My  true  love,  ray  true  love,  0  let  us  repair. 

Knowest  thou  the  wood,  where  the  tall  cedar  grows  ? 
There  the  queen  of  the  rivers  majestically  flows, 


AN  IMITATION   OF  MIGNON.  \\1 

The  streamlet  and  fountain  roll  down  to  the  plain, 

• 
Long  wand' ring  and  winding  they  seek  for  the  main. 

Knowest  thou  the  wood  ?    Oh,  there !   Oh,  there ! 
My  true  love,  my  true  love,  0  let  us  repair. 

Knowest  thou  the  prairies,  the  plains  and  the  meads? 
There  tall  grows  the  grass,  where  the  buffalo  feeds ; 
The  wild  ox  is  seen  on  the  banks  of  the  stream, 
Where   the   bright   specks   of    gold    thro'   the    dark 

waters  gleam. 

Knowest  thou  the  land  ?   Oh,  there !    Oh,  there ! 
My  true  love,  my  true  love,  0  let  us  repair. 

Knowest  thou  the  far,  the  far  distant  West  ? 
There  spring  with  her  roses  forever  is  drest  ,- 
There  summer  eternal  pours  music  divine ; 
There  autumn  and  harvest  unceasingly  shine. 
Knowest  thou  it  well  ?   Oh,  there !    Oh,  there ! 
My  true  love,  my  true  love,  O  let  us  repair. 


118  AN  IMITATION  OF  MIGNON. 

Knowest   thou  the   path  ?     There   the  fire-breathing 

• 

boat 
Moves    swift    on    its  way  with    its    flames    and    its 

smoke, 

Not  an  oar  nor  a  sail,  not  a  sheet  nor  a  shroud, — 
It  glides  on  its  way  like  the  shade  of  a  cloud. 

Knowest  thou  the  way?    Oh.  now!    Oh,  now! 

.1, 

My  true  love,  my  true  love,  0  now  let  us  go. 


IF  I  WERE   A   CHILD. 

If  I  were  a  child  I  'd  sport  and  play ; 

I  'd  rove  through  woods  and  fields ; 
I  'd  pluck  the  earliest  flowers  of  May, 

And  drink  the  sweets  they  yield. 

I'd  sit  by  the  side  of  the  babbling  brook, 
As  the  zephyrs  passed  along; 

I  'd  hide  in  the  alders'  shady  nook, 
And  mock  the  red-breast's  song. 


120  IF  I    WERE  A    CHILD, 

I  'd  find  where  the  painted  rainbows  rise, 
And  chase  them  from  morn  till  noon  ; 

By  night  I  'd  watch  at  the  foot  of  the  skies, 
And  catch  the  rising  moon. 

I  'd  seek  where  the  sweetest  wild  flowers  blow ; 

I  'd  find  where  the  streamlets  run ; 
In  the  meadows  I  'd  find  where  the  fox-gloves  grow, 

The  tall  wild  grass  among, 

I  'd  make  me  wings  to  fly  in  the  air ; 

I  'd  rise  at  the  break  of  day, 
And  catch  the  larks  that  were  singing  there ; 

And  drive  the  hawks  away. 

I  'd  build  me  a  boat,  a  jolly  boat, 

As  light  as  the  lightest  feather ; 
And  on  the  dancing  waves  I  'd  float 

In  the  bright  and  sunny  weather. 


IF  I    WERE  A    CHILD.  121 

If  I  were  a  child  how  sweet  'twould  be 

To  prattle  and  laugh  and  play ; 
Then  at  eve  to  be  rocked  on  my  mother's  knee, 

And  sleep  my  cares  away. 


THE  MOUNTAIN   SHEPHERD. 

My  home  is  on  the  mountain  tops ; 

I  rove  around  their  sides  ;  - 
I  dwell  among  the  cliffs  and  rocks. 

Where  gushing  fountains  glide ; 
By  day  I  watch  my  grazing  flocks, 

By  night  in  caverns  hide. 

When  morn  first  sheds  its  purple  light 
Along  the  dusky  east, 


THE   MOUNTAIN  SHEPHERD.  123 

High  on  the  mountain's  peering  height 

Its  kindling  azure  rests  ; 
Whilst,  o'er  the  plains,  retiring  night 

Still  spreads  her  gloomy  vest. 

And  still  the  lingering  sunbeam  plays, 

My  caverned  halls  among ; 
Whilst  thro'  their  crystal  arches  strays 

The  shepherd's  evening  song; 
With  golden  light  the  mountains  blaze, 

And  fading  day  prolong. 

Beneath  my  feet  the  storm-clouds  roar  ; 

The  forked  lightnings  shine ; 
Whilst  heaven's  bright  beams  in  sweetness  pour 

Around  this  home  of  mine  ; 
Here,  safe  above,  I'm  smiling  o'er 

This  raging  scene  sublime. 


124  THE   MOUNTAIN  SHEPHERD. 

The  lark  flies  up  to  meet,  with  me, 
The  beams  that  morning  sheds : 

Whilst  o'er  the  fields  a  vapor-sea 
Its  fleecy  foldings  spreads ; 

Where  flower  and  shrub  and  tow' ring  tree 
Rear  up  their  dewy  heads. 


AN    EVENING    SKETCH. 

MEMORY   AND    HOPE. 

Now  the  gold-bespangled  West 

Hangs  its  curtained  folds  on  high  ; 

Now  sweetly  sinks  the  sun  to  rest 
Adown  the  western  sky  ; 

While  thought  rolls  back  to  meet  the  morn 

And  tread  anew  the  dewy  lawn, 

Where  incense-breathing  zephyrs  play, 

And  rosy  light  leads  in  the  day. 


126  AN  EVENING   SKETCH. 

Twilight  spreads  its  dusky  rays 

Darkly  o'er  the  village  green  ; 
Whilst  Memory  backward  fondly  strays 

Through  life's  gay  fleeting  dream  ; 
And  fresh  o'er  fancy's  mirrored  glass 
The  fleeting  forms  of  childhood  pass — 
Though  long,  long  fled  from  human  eye, 
These  cherished  scenes  can  never  die. 

Memory  spreads  her  magic  wing 

O'er  the  hurrying  stream  of  time, 
And  on  the  distant  shadows  flings 

The  rays  of  light  divine. 
I  see  the  distant  mansion  rise, 
Where  day  first  met  my  infant  eyes ; 
I  walk  along  its  antique  halls, 
And  gaze  upon  its  sculptured  walls. 


AN  EVENING   SKETCH.  127 

Now,  in  distant  prospect  seen, 
Childhood's  artless,  busy  throng 

Are  sporting  round  the  little  green 
The  aged  trees  among. 

There  Fancy's  eye  can  fondly  trace 

A  former  friend  in  every  face  ; 

But  now,  alas,  how  few  remain  ! 

How  few  on  earth  will  meet  again ! 

Lovely  vision,  stay,  0  stay ! 

Fairest  of  the  youthful  fair; 
Thy  cheek  was  brighter  than  the  day, 

"  More  beautiful  than  air." 
Ere  Memory  learned  her  magic  art, 
Thy  image  dwelt  within  my  heart ; 
And  long  the  sacred  pledge  was  given, 
Ere  Fate  recalled  thee  back  to  heaven. 


128  AN   EVENING   SKETCH. 

Visioned  forms  before  me  rise  ; 

Youthful  pleasures  live  in  air ; 
When  reason  wakes,  delusion  flies, 

And  leaves  me  in  despair. 
The  shades  of  night  around  me  fly ; 
Her  pale,  dim  lamps  are  hung  on  high ; 
But  in  the  dusky-bosomed  East, 
The  promised  star  of  morning  rests. 

Soon  the  circlet  of  the  morn, 

O'er  the  mountain's  peering  height, 
Shall  spread  the  fleecy  robes  of  dawn 

And  breathe  the  purple  light ; 
So,  when  a  transient  joy  is  past, 
Its  baseless  form  eludes  our  grasp ; 
But  far  beyond  the  fleeting  dream, 
Hope  sheds  its  soft  and  heavenly  beam. 


AN  EVENING   SKETCH.  129 

Yonder,  heaven's  ethereal  bow 

Arches  o'er  the  distant  glade  — 
In  vain  the  thoughtless  lads  pursue 

The  illusive  phantom's  shade  ; 
What  is  't  that  charms  th'  enraptured  sight  ? 
'T  is  Hope's  bright  ray  of  sacred  light ; 
Whilst  o'er  the  future's  distant  scenes, 
It  shines  with  kind,  inviting  beams. 

Gathering  clouds  obscure  the  morn ; 

Deep  and  dark  their  drap'ry  folds ; 
But  ere  they  meet  the  mid-day  sun, 

Away  their  vapor  rolls ; 
So,  on  the  present  clouds  of  woe, 
Sweet  Hope  erects  her  glittering  bow ; 
And  far  beyond  the  yawning  tomb, 
She  waves  her  light,  fantastic  plume. 


130  AN  EVENING   SKETCH. 

Death  may  snatch  the  loveliest  form, 

Angel  of  oui-  youthful  love  ; 
But  Hope  can  raise  her  from  the  tomb, 

Through  fancy's  realms  to  rove. 
There  Hope  prolongs  the  fleeting  hour ; 
There  freshly  rears  the  nuptial  bower : 
And  there  it  spreads,  in  endless  bloom, 
A  sinless  Eden's  sweet  perfume. 


THE  GHOST  STUDENT. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  GOETKE. 

My  old  ghost-master's  far  away, 
And  all  his  sprites  shall  me  obey ; 
I've  watched  his  charms,  I've  watched  his  art, 
With  which  he  bade  the  goblins  start ; 
And  now,  with  spirit-power,  I'll  show 
What  magic  wonders  I  can  do. 

Hasten !    Hasten  ! 

• 
Quick  be  going. 

Let  the  water's 
Stream  be  flowing ; 


132  THE    GHOST  STUDENT. 

Let  the  current  running  in, 
Fill  the  bath  unto  the  brim. 

Come,  now,  old  Besom,  stand  upright, 
For  many  a  time  you've  been  a  knight' 
With  head  above,  on  two  legs  stand  — 
Put  on  your  dress  with  hasty  hand  — 
Take  pail  or  pot,  obey  my  will, 
And  tubs  and  bath  and  basin  fill. 

Hasten !   Hasten ! 

Quick  be  going, 

Let  the  water's 

Stream  be  flowing ; 

Let  the  current  running  in, 

Fill  the  bath  unto  the  brim. 

* 

Away  he  goes  to  yonder  stream  ; 
Already  there,  and  here  again  — 


THE    GHOST  STUDENT.  133 

He  's  gone  again,  again  is  here, 
And  foaming  full  the  baths  appear ; 
Away  again  —  he  's  here  with  more  — 
The  vessels  all  are  running  o'er. 

Slacken !    Slacken ! 

In  abundance 

Thy  rich  gifts  are 

All  around  us  — 

Ah  !    I  mark  it  —  I  've  forgotten, 

How  the  magic  charm  is  broken ! 

Alas !   the  word  he  uses  when 
He'd  change  the  demon  back  again  — 
Oh  that  thou  wast  a  lifeless  broom ! 
He  's  bringing  yet !    he  fills  the  room ! 
The  cellar 's  full !   the  house  's  o'erflowing  ! 
And  still  the  hellish  thing  is  going. 

I  no  longer 

Can  endure  it ; 


134  THE    GHOST  STUDENT. 

Could  I  seize  him. 

He  should  rue  it  — 

See,  ah,  see  him  fiercely  staring ! 

See  his  demon  eyeballs  glaring ! 
Alas,  thou  imp  of  Satan's  brood, 
Shall  the  house  become  a  flood  ? 
In  every  room  1  see  it  pour ; 
The  stream  is  now  above  the  floor ; 
And  still  the  goblin  hears  me  not, 
But  fills  again  his  waterpot. 

Now  I'll  end  thee. 

Wicked  demon  ; 

And  no  longer 

Shalt  thou  be  one  — 

But  with  blow  of  dashing  thunder, 

I  '11  cleave  thy  wooden  head  asunder. 

See,  again  he  's  on  his  track  ; 
I'll  try  the  axe  upon  his  back  — 


THE    GHOST  STUDENT.  135 

Stop  there,  I  say  —  't  was  bravely  done ! 
He's  lying  now  upon  the  ground  — 
In  two  his  mangled  form  I  see  — 
Again  I  've  hope,  again  I  am  free. 

Wonder !    Wonder ! 

All  surprising ! 

Both  the  fragments, 

See  them  rising ! 

Lo !  they  stand,  like  towering  knight, 

Two  in  numbers,  two  in  might. 

Wet  and  wetter!  both  are  running  — 

With  flowing  pails  again  they  're  coming. 

With  water,  water,  water  all, 

The  cellar's  full,  and  full  the  hall : 

0  lord  and  master !  'hear  me  call. 

Ah,  there  he  comes  —  the  master's  here  — 

His  mystic  words  the  demons  hear. 


136  THE    GHOST  STUDENT. 

"In  thy  corner, 

Besom,  Besom, 

Quick  retiring, 

For  a  season, 

Wait  the  charm  that  now  controls  you 

Wait  the  call  of  him  who  holds  you." 


THEY    CALL    ME   INFIDEL. 

They  call  me  infidel;  yes,  they  who  trust 

To  formal  creeds,  and  shadowy  rites  performed ; 

To  low,  debasing  fear,  and  look  demure ; 

To  prayers  of  priests ;  to  sermons  saintly  said,  — 

To  wash  away  their  sins,  and  make  amends 

For  wrongs  and  daily  outrage  done  to  man ; 

Who  feigned  repentance  bring,  to  cloak  their  deeds 

Of  shame,  and  hope  'twill  stand  instead  of  works 

Of  moral  worth,  and  duties  well  performed, 

The  pure  and  holy  deeds  of  charity, 


138  THEY  CALL  ME   INFIDEL. 

The  tender  love  embracing  all  in  one, 

And  binding  man  to  man,  with  kindred  ties 

Of  mutual  zeal  and  universal  good  ; 

Who,  chained  to  forms  and  rites  can  never  feel 

That  high  and  godlike  stretch  of  thought, 

Which  wings  the  infant  mind  for  heaven  ; 

Or,  patient  toiling  here  on  nature's  page, 

Is  ever  searching  deep  for  wisdom's  lore. 

But  let  these  saintly  men,  in  contrast,  bring 

Their  formal  acts  of  cold,  uiifelt  devotion, 

And,  with  the  glowing,  heartfelt  admiration 

Of  nature's  child,  compare  their  languid  zeal. 

Enclosed  with  walls  of  wood  and  brick  and  stone, 

Adorned  with  painted  saints,  or  martyred  forms 

Of  priests  and  popes,  they  vainly  worship  God. 

Beneath  the  starry  canopy  of  heaven, 

The  soft  blue  sky  inlaid  with  countless  gems 

Of  richer  worth  than  gold  or  diamond's  shine, 


THEY  CALL   ME   INFIDEL.  139 

Where  roll  the  radiant  orbs  which  rise  and  set, 

Obedient  to  the  will  of  Him  who  lit 

Their  silver  lamps  and  bade  them  shine,  —  beneath 

This  star-bespangled  fane,  my  altars  rise. 

The  mountains'  peering  tops,  whose  snowy  heads, 

Commingling  with  the  clouds,  look  out  on  heaven ; 

The  everlasting  hills,  deep-pillowed  in  the  womb 

Of  earth,  where  playful  nature  fashions  out 

The  shadowy  forms  of  all  that  be  on  earth, 

In  air,  or  ocean's  wave,  which,  raised  above, 

Instinct  with  life  and  being,  move ;  the  shore, 

Where  beat  the  restless  wave  and  rolling  tide  ; 

The  wide  extended  plains  and  desert  sands, 

Where  fiery  winds  their  baleful  empire  hold, 

The  altars  these  whereon  my  soul  pours  out, 

In  deep  and  heartfelt  thought,  her  adoration. 

I  trace  the  hand  divine,  in  every  link 

Of  being's  endless  chain.     As  well  may  God 


140  THEY  CALL   ME   INFIDEL. 

Be  seen  in  earth,  as  heaven;  the  lowliest  flower 
That  decks  the  vale,  the  feeblest  insect  form, 
As  plainly  speaks  of  God,  as  man,  or  high 
Angelic  race.     The  sun,  the  rain,  the  earth, 
The  balmy  air,  invigorates  and  warms 
The  slimy  reptile  tribes,  as  well  as  kings, 
And  popes,  and  sanctimonious  priests, 
Who   think   that   heaven    and   earth  were  made  for 

them, 
And  hell  for  all  besides. 


MAN    AND    WOMAN. 

FROM    THE    GERMAN    OF    SCHILLER. 
WOMAN. 

Here's  honor  to  woman  ;  I  sing  of  her  worth  ; 

The  roses  of  heaven  she  scatters  on  earth  ; 

In  the  bonds  of  her  love  she  enraptures  the  heart ; 
'Neath  the  veil  of  her  beauty  and  honor  combined, 
She  nurses  a  flame  of  the  holiest  kind, 

The  kindliest  love  with  the  kindliest  art. 


142  MAN   AND    WOMAN. 

MAN. 

Ever  from  the  bounds  of  truth, 
Strays  the  restless  mind  of  man  ; 
Now  he's  tossed  on  passion's  sea, 
Xow  he's  wrecked  on  passion's  strand  — 
Never  rests  his  restless  heart ; 
Wandering  oft  thro'  distant  scenes, — 
Now  along  the  starry  vault, 
Run  his  wild,  fantastic  dreams. 

WOMAN. 

But  woman,  with  magical  sweetness  divine ! 

How  softly  she  calls  back  the  wanderer's  mind, 

And  warns  him  to  seek,  in  her  presence,  repose ; 
In  the  hut  of  a  mother,  how  modest  and  fair, 
The  daughters  are  reared  with  the  teuderest  care ; 

Whilst   the  blossoms  of   virtue  are  twined  with  the 
rose. 


MAN  AND    WOMAN.  143 

MAN. 

Fiendlike  are  the  works  of  man, 
Blood  and  slaughter  mark  his  way ; 
Through  the  maze  of  life  he  runs, 
Restless  as  the  fleeting  day  — 
What  he  rears,  again  destroys ; 
Endless  war  his  wishes  wage, 
Never,  like  the  hydra's  heads, 
Cease  to  rise  with  triple  rage. 

WOMAN. 

But  silently  woman  is  seeking  her  fame ; 
The  gaze  of  the  eye  is  the  height  of  her  aim ; 
With  industrious  care  she  pursues  her  design, 
For  she's   freer  than   man  from  the   pressures  of 

life, 

And  freer  than  his  are  her  wishes  from  strife, 
Whilst  the  round  of  her  goodness  is  endless  as  time. 


144  MAN  AND    WOMAN. 

MAN. 

Strong  and  proud  and  fond  of  self, 
Man's  cold  bosom  never  knows 
(Fondly  clinging  round  the  heart,) 
Half  the  joys  of  godlike  love ; 
Never  knows  the  exchange  of  soul ; 
Never  pours  the  melting  tears ; 
Harder  than  his  hardened  heart 
Every  tender  thought  he  sears. 

WOMAN. 

As  the  light  wing  of  zephyr,  now  fluttering  along, 
Breathes  soft  through  the  harp  the  ^Eolian  song, 
So  the  soul  of  a  woman  breathes  music  divine. 

At  the  shadow  of  sorrow  she  softens  to  tears ; 

Her  bosom  is  moved  with  tenderest  fears, 
And  her  eye  with  the  dew-drop  of  pity  will  shine. 


MAN  AND   WOMAN.  145 

MAN. 

But  in  man's  tyrannic  sway, 
Power's  the  rule  of  right ; 
Scythia's  sword  now  rules  the  day, 
Persia's  sons  are  slaves  at  night  — 
Direful  passions  shake  his  frame ; 
Wild  and  rough  are  his  desires ; 
Discord  rears  her  horrid  voice ; 
Peace  in  wild  affright  retires. 

WOMAN. 

But  woman,  with  soft  and  persuasive  request, 
Enjoys  her  dominion  and  rules  in  the  breast ; 
She  hushes  contention  and  strife  into  peace ; 

She  softens  the  brave,  the  coward  reproves ; 

She   mantles   her  cheek   with   the   smiles   of  her 

love, 
Recalling  our  wanderings,  she  bids  them  to  cease. 


NOT    GLORY'S  PLUME. 

Not  glory's  plume  nor  beauty's  ray, 

Nor  sordid  riches  given, 
Can  light  the  soul's  benighted  way 

And  lead  it  up  to  heaven. 

Religion  seeks  her  wandering  guest, 
Amid  life's  tempests  driven ; 

And  on  her  calm  and  peaceful  breast, 
She  bears  it  up  to  heaven. 


NOT   GLORTS  PLUME. 

Then  what  is  wealth,  and  what  is  fame, 

Or  smiling  beauty,  even  ? 
They're  but  a  phantom,  but  a  name, 

That  never  leads  to  heaven. 


147 


LINES  WRITTEN    IN   A    YOUNG 
LADY'S    ALBUM    AT   SCHOOL. 

When  life's  young  morn  shall  fade  in  years, 
And  blooming  youth  in  age  appears  ; 
When  o'er  these  classic  walls  shall  twine 
The  gathering  moss  and  clustering  vine  ; 
When  those  who  trod  these  halls  with  you, 
In  various  climes  their  course  pursue  ; 
Whose  youthful  forms  no  room  can  find 
Amid  the  cares  that  fill  your  mind, — 
Then  on  these  pages  you  may  view 
The  pale,  dim  names  that  once  you  knew. 


WRITTEN  IN  AN  ALBUM.  149 

Our  cheeks,  though  now  in  rosy  health, 

Will  then,  perhaps,  be  cold  in  death; 

Or  living,  still  there  '11  scarce  remain 

On  memory's  page  one  lingering  name. 

If  then  these  lines  you  chance  to  see, 

Inscribed  on  friendship's  page  to  thee, 

Remember  well  that  he,  who  framed 

These  simple  rhymes,  your  friendship  claimed. 


ON    RECOVERING    FROM    SICK 
NESS. 


FROM    THE    FREXCH    OF    GRISSET. 


0  day  of  sweet  recovering  health  ! 

Bright  hours  of  joyful  mirth  ! 
It  is  a  ray  of  heavenly  life  ; 

A  new  restoring  birth. 
What  pleasures  kindle  in  my  breast 
To  view  the  purple  curtained  west, 


ON  RECOVERING   FROM  SICKNESS.        151 

As  twilight  fades  away. 
The  meanest  object  strikes  my  view  ; 
To  me  the  universe  is  new, 

And  all  is  fair  and  gay. 

The  dewy,  verdant  groves  among, 

When  golden  morn  appears, 
The  wakeful  linnet's  matin  song, 

With  transport  strikes  my  ears ; 
A  thousand  sights  now  meet  my  eye, 
Which  oft  had  passed  unheeded  by ; 
But  now  their  charms  I  see. 
Sweet  sights  to  vulgar  eyes  unseen, 
With  winning  look  and  gentle  mien, 
Are  ever  new  to  me. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  YOUNG 
LADY. 

The  floweret  bloomed  in  the  breath  of  morn, 
With  its  gems  of  pearl  and  dew, 

And  oped  to  the  breeze  its  painted  form 
Its  petals  of  golden  hue. 

But  the  spoiler  seized  its  robes  of  green, 
Whilst  he  plucked  its  golden  crest ; 

And  the  worm  and  the  reptile  soon  were  seen 
In  riot  on  its  breast. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A    YOUNG  LADY.      153 

So  Delia's  heart  beat  high,  and  hope  was  bright, 

As  the  dreams  of  youth  passed  by ; 
Her  cheek  was  red  and  her  step  was  light, 

As  her  fancied  joy  drew  nigh. 

But  her  hopes  and  dreams  have  quickly  passed, 

And  her  glass  of  life  is  run ; 
Whilst  death  in  his  icy  arms  has  clasped 

Her  cold  and  lifeless  form. 

And  oft  shall  the  rose  and  wild  flower  bloom, 

And  oft  the  spring  return ; 
But  the  sleep  of  death,  in  the  cold  damp  tomb, 

Shall  rest  o'er  her  silent  urn. 

But  't  is  said  that  the  mind  shall  never  die ; 

That  it  dwells  no  more  on  earth ; 
But  roams  through  the  bright  and  boundless  sky, 

Away  from  the  place  of  its  birth. 


THE  ONE  WHO   IS  FAR  AWAY. 

'Twas  at  the  dusky  hour  of  night; 
The  trembling  star  was  clear  and  bright ; 
When,  as  I  watched  its  feeble  ray, 
I  thought  of  her  who 's  far  away. 

And  far  on  high  the  silver  moon 
Had  slowly  reached  its  nightly  noon; 
When  thus  its  crescent  seemed  to  say, 
"  I  look  on  her  who  's  far  away." 

When  thus  a  heathen's  prayer  I  prayed, 
And  humbly  asked  for  Luna's  aid ; 


THE   ONE    WHO  IS  FAR   AWAY.  155 

0  speak,  indulgent  queen,  I  pray, 
And  tell  of  her,  who  's  far  away. 

Say,  does  she  watch  thy  ceaseless  run, 
From  dusky  eye  till  rise  of  sun  ? 
And  does  she  never  seem  to  say 
A  word  of  him,  who 's  far  away  ? 

0  Luna,  from  thy  throne  above, 
Reflect  her  image,  whom  I  love ; 
And  let  me  see,  till  dawn  of  day, 
A  glimpse  of  her  who  's  far  away. 


A    DREAM. 

FROM    THE    SPANISH. 

I  saw  a  flower,  —  alone  it  bloomed, 

Ungathered  and  unsought ; 
I  stretched  my  hand  to  grasp  its  stem, 

But  ah  !  I  reached  it  not. 

Between  us  flowed  a  dusky  stream, 

Unfathomed  and  unknown  ; 
And  on  its  distant  banks  there  stood 

This  beauteous  flower  alone. 


A    DREAM.  157 

But  summer's  suns  and  thirsty  winds 

Drank  up  the  lessening  stream ; 
And  now  between  its  grassy  banks 

Was  but  a  brooklet  seen. 

That  flower  still  stood  in  beauty's  bloom, 

Ungathered  and  alone ; 
With  eager  hand,  I  seized  the  stem, 

And  lo !  'twas  all  my  own. 


WRITTEN    IN   AN   ALBUM. 

Sacred  page,  bright  virgin  leaf, 

Yet  unsullied  by  a  stain ; 
Thine  to  keep  for  joy  or  grief 

Friendship's  brightest,  holiest  flame. 

Picture  fit  of  life's  young  morn  ; 

When,  as  yet  unstained  by  sins, 
Love  and  hope  and  peace  are  born, 

And  our  joyous  life  begins. 


WRITTEN  IN  AN  ALBUM.  159 

Sacred  page  to  friendship's  name, 
Ne'er  receive  the  flatterer's  pen ; 

Nobler  thoughts  thy  bosom  claim, 
Waking  mem'ry's  voice  again. 

Thine  to  tell  of  youthful  love ; 

Thine  the  tale  of  younger  days  ; 
When  the  passions  lawless  rove ; 

When  our  fancied  bliss  betrays. 

But  when  wrinkled  age  appears, 
Wasting  youth  and  beauty's  bloom; 

When  the  rolling  lapse  of  years 

Clouds  our  mem'ries  in  the  tomb, — 

Little  volume,  then  retain, 

In  thy  bosom's  sacred  trust, 
Many  a  long-forgotten  name, 

Whilst  we're  mouldering  in  the  dust. 


ADAM    LAYS    THE    BLAME   ON 
EVE. 

FROM   THE   ITALIAN   OF   MENZOXI. 

When  Jesus  gave  a  groan  of  anguish, 
When  he  bowed  his  head  and  died, 

All  the  mountains  stooped  and  trembled ; 
All  the  graves  were  open  wide. 

Then  Adam,  from  his  sleep  of  ages, 
Shook  his  hoary  locks  in  fright ; 

And  rising  from  the  land  of  shadows, 
Looked  with  horror  at  the  sight. 


ADAM  LAYS    THE  BLAME    ON  EVE.        161 

And  as  he  gazed  with  grief  and  wonder, 

Uttered  forth  with  sad  remorse, 
"  Who  's  the  one  that 's  hanging  yonder, 

Who  's  the  victim  on  the  cross  ? " 

When  he  saw  that  't  was  the  Master, 
All  his  soul  was  filled  with  woe ; 

And  raising  up  his  hands  repentant, 
On  his  bosom  gave  a  blow. 

And  turning  then,  with  tears  and  weeping, 
To  Eve  he  said  with  husky  breath, 

"  You  see  't  is  for  your  sins  and  follies 
That  He,  the  just  one,  suffers  death." 


ALL  THINGS   CHANGE. 

The  fairest  blossom  of  the  spring, 
Though  beautiful  and  gay, 

The  gaudy  insect's  gilded  wing, 
Must  quickly  pass  away. 

The  star  of  beauty  shines  on  high, 
Whilst,  o'er  the  mountain's  height, 

It  climbs  the  dusky-bosomed  sky, 
Amid  the  lamps  of  night. 


ALL    THINGS   CHANGE.  163 

That  star  of  beauty  must  decay,  — 

Its  course  will  soon  be  run  ; 
The  heavens  and  earth  will  pass  away, 

When  once  their  work  is  done. 

There  is  a  realm  of  endless  day, 

Where  love  shall  never  end  ; 
There  is  a  life  without  decay, 

Where  kindred  souls  shall  blend. 

There  is  a  boundless  space  above  ; 

To  loving  souls  'tis  given, 
To  live  a  life  of  endless  love, 

A  life  of  endless  heaven. 


REMEMBERED   JOYS.      • 

Like  earliest  beams  of  opening  day, 
Unlocked  by  morning's  saffron  ray, 
Chasing  the  gloom  of  night  away, 

Remembered  joys  return  to  me. 
E'en  fancy's  scenes  before  me  shine, 
Turning  a  thought  to  meet  with  thine ; 
In  transports  oft  I  call  you  mine, 

And  seek  no  bliss  but  thee. 


THE   ORPHANS. 

FROM    THE    SPANISH   OF   MELENDKZ. 

When  I,  a  tender  youth, 
With  young  Dorila  strayed, 

We  roved  around  the  field, 
We  walked  along  the  glade. 

With  sweetest  flow'rets  oft, 
Her  tender  hand  would  twine 

A  garland  for  us  both, 

And  crown  her  head  and  mine. 


166  THE   ORPHANS. 

Our  childhood  passed  in  joy, 
Bach  day  brought  new  delight ; 

And  every  scene,  and  every  hour, 
For  us  was  gay  and  bright. 

Our  years  of  innocence 
Fled  like  the  dewy  morn  ; 

And  soon  within  our  breasts 
Maturer  thoughts  were  born. 

And  when  I  brought  her  blossoms, 
And  laid  them  at  her  feet, 

My  heart,  within  my  bosom, 
With  throbs  of  transport  beat. 

With  every  glancing  look, 
Dorila  sweetly  smiled ; 

And  every  prattling  word 
My  willing  soul  beguiled. 


THE   ORPHANS.  167 

At  length  two  cooing  doves 

Displayed  before  our  sight 
The  tenderest  of  caresses, 

The  transports  of  delight. 

Then  like  a  passing  shadow, 
Our  childhood's  days  were  gone; 

And  love  with  silken  cords 
Had  bound  our  souls  in  one. 


THE  POET'S   FAME. 

Before  the  raiser's  hoarded  gold, 
Before  the  hero's  name, 

Give  me  the  muse's  sacred  song ; 
Give  me  the  poet's  fame. 

Before  a  monarch's  regal  crown, 
Before  a  prelate's  chair, 

In  nature's  flowery  lap  I  '11  sit ; 
The  muse's  wreath  I  '11  wear. 


THE  POETS  FAME.  169 

Whilst  demons  strew  the  earth  with  blood, 

And  savage  wars  arise, 
The  peaceful  muse  leads  forth  the  soul 

To  tread  its  native  skies. 

She  loves  to  watch  the  starry  hosts, 

Forever  as  they  shine ; 
And  all  along  their  distant  course, 

To  trace  the  hand  divine. 

She  loves  the  flowers  that  bloom 

Around  the  mountain's  side ; 
She  loves  the  creeping  streamlets, 

That  through  the  thickets  glide. 


OVER  THE   RIVER. 

Over  the  river  my  loved  one  is  waiting, 

Alone  she  is  waiting  for  me; 
But  the  river  seems  wider  and  deeper  than  ever, 

And  the  shore  is  too  distant  to  see. 

I  sit  in  the  darkness  in  doubt  and  despair ; 

I  await  the  approaches  of  day ; 
Whilst  the   dawnings   of  hope   kindle   slow   in   my 
breast, 

And  the  specters  of  doubt  flee  away. 


OVER    THE  RIVER.  171 

The   night   and   the   storm-wind   have    passed   from 
the  sky ; 

The  east  is  unfolding  its  light ; 
The  mist  on  the  water  is  passing  away, 

And  the  shores  now  lift  to  my  sight. 

A  mantle  of  beauty  now  rests  on  the  earth, 
And  lights  up  the  stream  with  its  charms ; 

In  the  transports  of  joy  I  rush  o'er  its  waves, 
And  my  loved  one  is  clasped  in  my  arms. 


OCTOBER. 

FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  COPPEE. 

Before  that  the  heavens  in  winter  are  veiled, 
Before  that  the  streamlets  shall  close, 

Let  us  list  to  the  song  of  the  last  singing-bird ; 
Let  us  look  on  the  last  blooming  rose. 

October  still  gives  us  a  moment  to  gaze, 
Whilst  nature 's  in  glory  arrayed ; 

Its  mantle  of  purple,  its  forests  of  gold, 
Are  beauties  that  wither  and  fade. 


OCTOBER.  173 

Such  beautiful  charms  will  not  always  endure; 

Yet  in  spite  of  the  tempests  that  lower, 
We  may  still  have  a  moment  to  linger  in  hope : 

Let  us  seize  on  the  fugitive  hour. 

Oh,  then,  let  us  build  our  last  house  in  a  land 

Where  the  skies  are  all  bright  and  serene  ; 

Where  never  the  cold  chills  of  winter  are  known, 

Where  the  fields  and  the  forests  are  green. 


MORN. 

Soft  the  gold-encircled  morn 
Lifts  its  radiant  orb  on  high  ; 

Swift  the  dew-bespangled  lawn 
Lays  its  glittering  splendors  by. 

The  farmer  seeks  the  distant  mead  ; 

The  idler  mounts  his  prancing  steed ; 

But  I  '11  away  to  yonder  stream, 

And  gaze  upon  its  banks  of  green. 

There,  beneath  the  cooling  shade. 
Away  from  strife's  alarms, 


MORN.  175 

T"  loiter  on  the  flowery  glade ; 

T'  muse  on  gentle  Delia's  charms. 
'T  is  there  that  nature's  beauties  shine ; 
'T  is  there  I  trace  the  hand  divine ; 
'Tis  there  to  me  'tis  kindly  given 
To  taste  the  loves  and  joys  of  heaven. 


WHERE  WAS   GOD? 


"  In  the  beginning  God  created  the  heavens  and  the  earth." 
Before  the  "  beginning,"  what  ?    Where  was  God  ?  " 


Before  that  the  heavens  were  in  glory  outspread ; 

Before  the  stars  and  the  sun ; 
In  the  boundless  and  far-distant  regions  of  space, 

Oh !  where  was  the  Infinite  One  ? 


Before  that  the  light,  thin,  nebulous  mists 
To  gather  in  space  had  begun ; 


WHERE    WAS   GOD?  177 

Before  that  the  bright  beams  of  light  had  appeared, 
Oh !  where  was  the  Infinite  One  ? 

Before  that  the  quick,  kindling  pulses  of  life 

Its  mystical  web  had  yet  spun  ; 
Before  the  first  throbbings  of  love  had  awoke ; 

Oh !  where  was  the  Infinite  One  ? 

Before  that  the  dark,  empty  regions  of  night 

The  cycles  of  death  had  outrun ; 
Before  that  the  breedings  of  chaos  had  ceased ; 

Oh !  where  was  the  Infinite  One  ? 

Eternal  in  God  has  the  universe  stood ; 

Eternal  the  stars  and  the  sun ; 
And  the  boundless  regions  of  light  and  of  space 

Are  filled  by  the  Infinite  One. 


178  WHERE    WAS   GOD? 

Eternal  in  Him  are  the  fountains  of  love  ; 

Nor  has  aught,  that  exists,  e'er  begun ;  * 
Eternal  is  life,  eternal  is  love  ; 

Eternal  the  Infinite  One. 


*Nullam  rem  e  nilo  gigni  divinitus  unquam.  —  Lucretius  de  Naturu  Re- 
rum.  B.  1,  v.  150. 

That  nought  from  nought  by  power  divine  has  risen. — Dr.  Good's 
Translation. 

Admit  this  truth,  that  nought  from  nothing  springs,  and  all  is  clear. 
—  Ibidem. 


THE   INDIANS. 

By  the  banks  of  a  stream  on  the  mountain  side, 
Where  swift  o'er  the  rocks  the  bright  waters  glide, 
Is  a  hillock  of  earth  enveloped  in  shade, 
Where  the  red  warriors'  bones  in  their  blankets  are 
laid. 

There   the    song   of   the  woodbird    is   heard   in   the 

spring ; 
There  the  young  foxes  bark  and  the  cat-birds  sing ; 


180  THE  INDIANS. 

There    the    pine    and    the    beech    trees    their    dark 

shadows  spread, 
While   their  roots  clasp    the  soil   that    envelops  the 

dead. 

But   their  children   have  gone  where   the  sun  sinks 

to  rest, 
And    the    smoke  of   their  wigwams  is  seen    in    the 

west; 

But  their  strength  and  their  beauty  are  fading  away 
As  the  twilight  of  evening  at  the  close  of  the  day. 

Soon  the  last  of  their  race  will  be  lost  to  our  sight, 
And    their    sun  will    go    down   in    the    darkness  of 

night ; 
But  the  white   man  will   dwell   where   their   cabins 

have  stood, 
And  turn  up  the  soil  that  was  wet  with  their  blood. 


THE   INDIANS.  181 

As  the  months  and  the  years  in  their  course   shall 

roll  on, 

Our  children  will  ask  for  the  race  that  is  gone ; 
But  their   mounds  and   their  graves  will   be  lost  to 

our  sight, 
And  their  story  be  shrouded  in  fable  and  night. 

And  so  shall  the  tribes  of  the  earth  fade  away ; 
And  race  after  race  shall  rise  and  decay ; 
But  the  heavens  and  the  earth  shall  eternal  remain, 
And  God  in  His  works  forever  shall  reign. 


v      ^^   ^^^ 

? 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-50m-9,'60(B3610B4)444 


PS 
JLkZk 


Currier  - 


C936A17  Early  poems 


PS 

Iklk 

C936A1? 


s 


.U.C  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

••llUMMiaMa^HB.,.. 


M       «  '  "Ml  Hill  Hill  I|M|  ||| 

A  A      000034589    2 


